


Sweeter Dreams

by Tierfal



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-07
Updated: 2010-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-10 23:50:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 35,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a rather different ending to 2.10 ("Sweet Dreams"), Merlin and Arthur head to Olaf's kingdom of Valden to put things right. In the process, Merlin racks up an impressive series of treasonous crimes: insolence, incompetence, tripping while running for his life, and accusing the crown prince of snoring are only the beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helva2260](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=helva2260).



> This fic is for [helva2260](http://helva2260.livejournal.com), who was kind enough to bid on me at [help_haiti](http://community.livejournal.com/help_haiti), not knowing she would be waiting seven months to get seven times as many words as she bargained for. For the thousandth time, I am so sorry, and I hope you enjoy this crazy thing. XD Also of very major note: [eltea](http://eltea.livejournal.com) was up extremely late the other night beta-ing this sucker. Generally mark this down as another of the innumerable fics that wouldn't be here without her help and support.
> 
> Also, there are cameos in this fic. Really. I know they're subtle and all. And MAJOR SPOILERS for 2.10, since it's pretty much entirely based on that episode. :)

Merlin had five minutes to find Arthur's true love, wrangle a kiss out of her, and save both the prince himself and the whole of Albion as they knew it.

Another day, another kingdom- and life-threatening disaster—Merlin was starting to think he should write a book.

He skidded around the weathered wood enclosure of the tourney yard, and he allotted himself two wracking coughs in the resultant cloud of dust before he raced up the rickety stairs to the ladies' box.

They were all murmuring concernedly, casting nervous glances at Olaf around silk fans and their own clasped hands, and he focused his speech on the most worried among their number.

"All of you," he panted, "who have ever been interested in Arthur—you've got to listen to me. He's in grave danger."

"I think we noticed," Lady Martha replied dryly, nodding towards the Arthur-shaped impressions in the tourney field's dust. Then, as Merlin opened his mouth, she took a shrewder look at him. "He's not usually like this at all. Is there something wrong with him?"

"Yes," Merlin wheezed. "Very wrong. Dreadfully wrong. Provided that he lives through the next round, he's going to marry Lady Vivian, and that means none of _you_ will ever get to be with him. How wrong is that?"

"Wrong!" came the startled chorus, delicate hands fluttering everywhere.

"Right," Merlin said. "But you've got one last chance to convince him Vivian's a lousy choice. He's in his tent preparing. My suggestion is that all of you line up, go in one-by-one, and kiss him to see if he won't change his mind."

It was either a brilliant plan or an incredibly stupid one. He didn't think Arthur would mind too much either way, given the extremely impressive quantity of snogging he'd get out of the deal.

The unsettled women looked to Lady Martha, who stood and planted her hands on her hips.

"Don't much care if he changes his mind," she declared, grinning, "but I've always wondered what he tastes like."

With a rousing cheer that caught an extremely confused Uther's attention— how did _he_ like being the one with no idea what the hell was going on?—the ladies flocked down the stairs and stampeded towards the tents, tittering all the way, leaving a colorful trail of dropped handkerchiefs and other favors in their wake.

Someone tugged on Merlin's sleeve, and he turned to find a wide-eyed Misa, the very nice servant girl who worked for the castle's head seamstress and had once added a bow to Merlin's red tunic without him noticing.

"Merlin," she whispered, "what's going on?"

Merlin jerked his thumb towards the escaping herd of ladies. "Last chance to kiss Arthur before he ends up with Vivian," he explained to the cluster of curious faces, "or dies. And/or dies."

Misa made a noise that could only be called a squeal and rocketed out of her seat after the court women, and the other serving girls precipitously followed suit. Merlin was left alone in a very empty section of tourney bleachers, and the two dozen nearest men, including the king, were staring at him as if he had spontaneously turned into a dragon.

Merlin glanced down at himself, just to be sure, and then mustered an innocent grin and a shrug. When everyone seemed to remember that this was Merlin, who was afflicted and inexplicable, they recommenced ignoring him, and he darted out of the tourney grounds, heart pounding, to enact Stage Two of his master plan.

Well, to enact Stage Two of his extremely dubious, not-even-remotely-foolproof plan, but at least it was a start.

Speaking of dragons, though, Merlin hated dragons. Merlin hated every dragon he'd ever met—which was only the one, but he was bad enough to prejudice Merlin against the whole race. If they all spoke in riddles and laughed at your strife, Uther had probably been right to try to wipe them out. Maybe one of them had promised _him_ some obscure destiny and had followed up with a weird metaphor or five.

_"Why, it is the greatest force of all,"_ the dragon had proclaimed. At Merlin's blank look, he'd elaborated, _"Love."_

Merlin had always assumed it was brute force, since that tended to win out last time he checked.

_"Love,"_ he had repeated.

_"You must find the person Arthur truly loves."_

That was easy enough—mirrors weren't too hard to come by.

_"And then what?"_ he had dared to ask.

_"One kiss from her will break the enchantment, and he will desire Vivian no more."_

Merlin had stared. _"…seriously?"_

_"Have I ever before led you astray, young warlock?"_

_"Yeah, actually; let me make a list of the times, and I'll get back to you, if I can even carry it this far."_

More uproarious laughter. Merlin wondered if all dragons were quite this sadistic.

_"You should make haste, Merlin."_

_"Why, does he have to kiss her by midnight, too?"_

Something stung, and it wasn't the cliché. Merlin had pushed the distraction impatiently aside—duly noting that the Dragon was just busting up laughing at this point, which wasn't any help—and then had turned on his heel and stormed up into the castle proper, grimly resolved. The obvious solution was to find Gwen, but something cold and ominous had been slithering in Merlin's chest, and he had long since learned to trust his instincts. Much as he appreciated Gwen, and much as Arthur seemed to pine for her, he didn't want to bank the prince's life and the kingdom's fate on a single, solitary kiss. That just sounded irresponsible, to tell the truth.

Thus it was that, careening up the stairs from the dungeons and waving off the guards' indignant shouts, he had cobbled together his plan: he would get as many eligible women as possible to kiss Arthur, raising the odds of encountering 'the person Arthur truly loved.' Even if none of his recruits was that person, having a long line would buy him more time to search for possibilities—and to convince Gwen that she hadn't been slighted after all, because this was all one big, messy, magical misunderstanding.

That seemed to be a trend around here.

Shaking himself out of the flashback, Merlin burst into Gwen's house, thoroughly disheveled by now, the countdown running in the back of his mind. No matter how many women were lined up outside Arthur's tent, at some point, the tournament officiators would order him back into the fight, and if Gwen hadn't gotten through yet, they were all royally fucked.

Appropriately enough.

"Gwen," Merlin gasped out, "need… your help."

Gwen was gazing out the window. Her face was set, but her bottom lip was trembling. Merlin felt a wrenching wave of—something. Something that felt like sympathy, but that couldn't be right.

"What with, Merlin?" she asked softly.

"Matter," Merlin panted, "of life… and death. Please, Gwen. Haven't got… any choice…"

Gwen looked at him much more perceptively than he would have liked, and not just because he was flailing in her foyer, looking like he'd rolled in the tourney grounds' dust before coming here.

"Why do you always do this?" she asked. "Why do you always jump to everybody's rescue?"

This was the Gwen he remembered—and the Gwen who scared him just a little, because she knew something he didn't or something he didn't want her to.

"Somebody's got to," he answered truthfully. "Come on, Gwen—please. You're the only hope we have."

With warmth and dignity, she swallowed her ambivalence and rose to her feet to follow him. This, too, was the Gwen who had befriended him, awkwardness and all.

They scurried back to the tents, Gwen's emotions warring on her face more vigorously than Arthur and Olaf had fought. Gaius, his hands full of bandages and salves, was staring incredulously at the crowd of women outside Arthur's tent. The women, under Lady Martha's efficient command, were funneling through one at a time to emerge on the other side and start back for their seats, sighing contentedly as a rule.

Struggling to catch his breath, Merlin gave Gaius an imploring look, directing Gwen to the back of the line. "Just trust me," he said.

"The gods know I do," Gaius replied, eyeing the process taking place, "though even they can't figure out _why_."

Merlin bit his lip, watching the line stutter forward, new girls appearing from the tent, chattering with their cohorts, and then sauntering off, looking very pleased. "D'you think there's any chance Morgana is Arthur's true love?" he asked Gaius. "I didn't want to risk explaining to her, 'cause she's sitting right next to Vivian."

"Not a chance of that," Gaius answered. "What in the world is going on here, Merlin?"

Merlin ran a hand through his hair. The line was dwindling fast, and Lady Martha had stepped down from her tree-stump pedestal to step into the second-to-last spot, just in front of Gwen.

"It's complicated," he managed. "I'll be right back, Gaius; I've got to see if this works."

"What if it doesn't?" Gaius prompted skeptically.

Merlin considered. "Do you know anything about ritual suicide?"

Gaius shoved him into the tent.

Merlin stumbled to regain his balance, his eyes adjusting to the dimness inside the tent just as Lady Martha knocked the entrance flaps aside and strode purposefully up to Arthur, the previous young lady fleeing red-faced and giggling.

"You know," Lady Martha told a dazed but certainly not discontented prince, "you're not really my type."

"Why not?" Arthur managed faintly.

"Too young," Martha decided, though it definitely didn't stop her from burying both hands in his hair and drawing him in for an extremely enthusiastic kiss.

Gwen looked like she might throw up, and Merlin patted her arm encouragingly. Personally, he was enjoying the view—Lady Martha was pretty gorgeous, and Arthur was always easy on the eyes.

Martha pulled back, beaming. "You're not too bad, though," was the verdict, "for a kid."

Even magicked-up and overwhelmed, Arthur immediately opened his mouth to protest, but Lady Martha cut him off, patting him on the cheek and winking at Gwen.

"All yours," she said.

"Ah," Arthur remarked smugly, sighting the extremely intimidated serving girl. "Come to wish me good l—"

Merlin planted both hands on Gwen's back and pushed, sending her staggering straight into Arthur, who received her with the response he'd been practicing all this time.

There was a sudden stab of pain, so agonizing, urgent, and brief that it almost didn't register, like a cut from a knife so sharp that its edge was invisible. It must have been his body's automatic perception of strong magic being shattered—he was a creature of the old religion; how many enigmatic enemies had told him that? The breakage of such a forceful spell probably shook something close to his core.

Speaking of being shaken, just as Gwen and Arthur broke apart, gazing into one another's eyes, there was a commotion from outside, which immediately became a commotion inside. Gaius flung the tent flaps aside, barging in with the expression of a man whose curiosity had overcome his better judgment.

"They're calling for Arthur; did it w—"

In mid-syllable, Gaius slipped on an abandoned silk handkerchief, pitching forward to crash into Merlin, who stumbled forward himself, displacing Gwen in Arthur's arms.

Merlin's knee twinged, and he twitched, and the tiny motion closed the miniscule distance between Arthur's mouth and his.

Kissing Arthur was not exactly like the fleeting fantasies Merlin had guiltily sustained on bad days, when he needed something to cling to. In fact, kissing Arthur was nothing like the fantasies, because Arthur wasn't really kissing back, and he certainly wasn't running his fingers through Merlin's hair, and he had instead gone all tense and frozen, which was kind of insulting.

Then again, Merlin probably didn't compare particularly favorably to the long and diversified series of women Arthur had just tried out, and he probably _especially_ didn't compare to Gwen.

He scrambled back and cleared his throat, swiping at his mouth with his sleeve. Arthur stared at him disbelievingly for a long moment, eyes wide and blue and unrevealing, and then his face contorted into rage.

"_Merlin_!" he growled through tightly-clenched teeth.

Merlin turned to Gaius.

"I guess _something_ worked," he said.

Gaius's eyebrow hadn't been higher in a long, long time.

—

  
Arthur withdrew his swordpoint from its place against Olaf's chest, offering the king a hand up instead of a hole in the throat, and Merlin punched the air, overflowing with relief. Trying to reroute a little of the joy, he threw both arms around Gaius and hugged his mentor tightly, bouncing up and down.

Gaius chuckled. "Awfully affectionate today, aren't we, Merlin?"

Merlin went very pink. "That was your fault," he pointed out. "And it doesn't matter—Gwen saved Camelot! Arthur'll only be mad at me until he realizes he was about to die, and then he'll forget about everything but that."

Gaius clapped Merlin's shoulder, leading the way back to Arthur's tent, where Merlin would still be on armor-cleaning and Arthur-coddling duty despite the excitement.

It was an unfair world he was so fond of rescuing.

Gaius stayed, preparing a poultice for Arthur's broken rib, as Merlin gathered his supplies, picking a place to sit where a sunbeam would be at his back. Momentarily, the tent flaps parted, admitting Arthur, damp-haired but triumphant, though there was more than a hint of strain in his grin. He passed his broadsword to Merlin, who set it down and leapt out of his sunbeam spot to get to work peeling off armor.

"Shouldn't you be out celebrating, Sire?" Gaius asked, helping to tug the tabard and then the linen over Arthur's head.

Arthur grimaced and, free of the fabric, looked down at the mess of purpling bruises on his chest. "Couldn't ignore it anymore. What the hell happened?"

"Olaf broke your rib," Gaius dutifully reported, "when you were fighting with the quarterstaff."

Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Why don't I remember any of this?" he asked.

Merlin exchanged a glance with Gaius and then took a deep breath.

"You were enchanted," he said.

Arthur stared.

"Lady Vivian still is," Merlin went on. "It was—well, it doesn't matter who it was, because you're all right now. They were trying to start a war by getting you and Olaf to kill each other, and it almost worked, but we've stopped them by breaking the spell."

Merlin waited, inwardly cringing, for Arthur to demand how exactly they'd done that—and for Merlin to have to explain to an amnesiac prince that there had been a very long line of pursed-lipped women involved, somehow without mentioning the dragon-under-the-castle bit.

"Vivian's still enchanted?" Arthur inquired.

"I just—" Merlin began, then stopped. "Oh. Yeah, she's still infatuated with you."

Arthur's facial muscles twitched towards a combination of horror and dismay. "And I was—'infatuated'—with her?"

Merlin started grinning. It wasn't his fault; it was just that Arthur made fun of him _all the time_, and he finally had an opportunity for mostly-innocuous revenge—

"It's not funny, _Merlin_," Arthur gritted out.

"It's a little funny," Merlin chirped.

Arthur reached for his sword, and Merlin raised both hands, waving them peaceably.

"Not funny at all," he amended. "Might actually be the most tragic thing I've ever seen."

Gaius's cough sounded suspiciously similar to a sardonic laugh.

"Good," Arthur decided, folding his right arm across his collarbones to give Gaius better access to his injured rib. "You'll have to help me explain this tragedy to King Olaf."

"What?" Merlin wailed. "Why?"

"Because you remember what happened," Arthur responded, which Merlin reluctantly decided was fair enough.

He had a deep premonitory feeling that he was going to regret this.

—

  
Splint-bandaged and fully-clothed, Arthur watched Merlin shuffling around his bedroom, sweeping for no other reason than that Arthur had suggested it. The unnecessary task was clearly an excuse to keep Merlin around until Olaf could get away from his other engagements and pay Arthur a visit, which the prince had requested in a note that Merlin had delivered himself.

Merlin was pouting. It had been a long day, and haltingly explaining to a powerful king that his spoiled daughter was under a spell did not sound like a nice way to end it.

A hot meal would have been nice. Or a warm meal. Or a lukewarm meal and a soft bed. Or anything other than leaning on a broom handle in one of the corners of Arthur's gigantic room, admiring the intricacy of the dust formations.

Admittedly, this job might not have been so bad now if he'd done it more often, but there was also the factor that the dust formations were rather impressive. The one he was cataloguing now looked kind of like Arthur's profile.

Not that Merlin would have recognized Arthur's profile in a crowd of thousands, let alone a coagulation of dust, or anything.

"Merlin," Arthur drawled from where he was sitting at the table, slouching in his chair as much as possible without worsening his broken rib, "are you honestly too dense to figure out how to sweep a room, or do you just pretend to be in order to procrastinate?"

"I'm tired," Merlin informed him, flicking the broom's bristles and vindictively obliterating the Arthur-shaped dust bunny. "And now you want me to try to tell Olaf that Vivian's going to be even crazier than usual until her 'true love' plants one on her?"

Arthur colored a little. "Is that what—and Guinevere—"

Merlin smacked the flooring with the broom, generating a considerable cloud of dust, and sneezed violently.

"That's right," he managed, rubbing his nose. "Olaf's not going to be happy about it, and guess who's going to take the brunt of the blame for that?"

There was a brisk knock at the door.

Arthur was trying not to smirk. "Show-time, Merlin," he announced.

Merlin attempted to incinerate Arthur with his eyes without actually incinerating Arthur with his eyes, since he might be capable of it if he tried hard enough, and Gaius would be very, very mad.

Arthur jerked his head meaningfully, and Merlin tried anyway, setting the broom down and crossing behind Arthur's chair to go answer the door.

Olaf prowled in like he owned the place. While Merlin supposed he had a right to assert himself, given how awkwardly his last appearance in this room had gone, the man could at least have nodded acknowledgment of Merlin's gesture like Arthur usually did, so Merlin stuck his tongue out at the back of the king's crowned and fur-cradled head.

Arthur, who was sitting up a lot straighter now, seemed to be having considerable difficulties maintaining his Impassive But Respectful Face, and Merlin smiled smugly.

"Thank you for coming at such short notice," Arthur said, getting to his feet. He sat again, one hand jumping to his injured rib, only once Olaf had joined him at the table. "I'm afraid the news I have is unpleasant."

Olaf raised an eyebrow in a way that wouldn't faze anyone who had met Gaius. "Do tell."

Arthur glanced at Merlin, who shrugged permissively.

"Your daughter," Arthur said, and Olaf's shoulders tensed, "is enchanted."

Olaf's wariness segued into deep doubtfulness, and his eyebrow ranged towards Gaius-worthy territory.

"I believe the word you want is 'enchant_ing_,'" he said.

"No," Merlin cut in impatiently, stepping forward and then hastily retreating as Olaf turned blazing eyes on him. "Er—no, my lord, that's not what he means."

"Thank you, Merlin," Arthur interjected, giving him the _Just because I'd never follow through on my execution threats doesn't mean someone else won't slit your throat to shut you up_ look. He quickly returned his attention to Olaf. "I imagine you know my father's position on sorcery, sir?"

Olaf gave Arthur a conspiratorial grimace. "I imagine everyone in the world except the sorcerers knows that."

Arthur folded his hands on the table and leaned forward, his eyes intent. Merlin recovered the broom and tried to seem busy while watching closely.

"There was a sorcerer here at court," Arthur said, his voice low, his features fiercely ingenuous. "It's pointless to concern ourselves with which individual harbored the sorcerer, and I'm hoping to let it rest, as he's gone now, and my father would certainly destabilize the peace if he was aware of this deception. The important thing is that the Lady Vivian and I were targeted with a love spell in the hopes that our attempts to be together would start a feud—which is precisely what almost happened, as you know."

Olaf smiled faintly, and Merlin grudgingly decided that this fellow wasn't all bad.

"I thought your actions were a bit bizarre," he said. "I've never seen Vivian actually take to anyone before."

"The problem," Arthur went on bravely, "is that while my half of the spell has been broken, the Lady Vivian's has not."

Olaf paused. "How do we break it, then?" he asked.

Arthur looked to Merlin helplessly.

Merlin sighed.

"If you'll give me leave, sir," he said to Olaf, tentatively moving closer, "I—"

"Who are you?" Olaf demanded.

"This is my manservant, Merlin," Arthur replied. "He is without contest the worst servant in the region, but he has a knack for getting in trouble and an even better knack for getting out of it. He also works for Gaius, our court physician, who is one of my father's oldest and most trusted friends. He has no sense whatsoever of social position, but if you can forgive his complete and utter lack of tact, I assure you that you can believe everything he says. He has never lied to me before."

Merlin was startled into silence for a moment. He hadn't thought Arthur actually noticed his loyalty, whether or not loyalty and honesty really coincided most of the time.

"Go on, then," Olaf urged.

Merlin twisted his hands around the broom handle. Explaining this without incriminating himself was like walking across a sucking tar pit that had three stepping stones over its entire length.

"Arthur found a lock of the Lady Vivian's hair under his pillow," he started slowly, "which I assume is the source of the enchantment. I gather that love spells tends to be extremely strong because love's power makes for really big magic."

Arthur was looking at him funny, and Merlin resisted the potent urge to make a face in response. He shifted his gaze back to Olaf, trying to exude reliability.

"Gaius and I do research sometimes," he invented. "It's easier to fight magic if you have some understanding of how it works. Anyway, we figured out that we had to use actual love to break the love spell, so I went and got…" Arthur's thoughtful uncertainty had blossomed into a venomous warning. "Well, his true love had to kiss him, so I brought her over, and that's when he snapped out of it—you may have noticed his perspective on the fight changed pretty dramatically between the mace and the sword bit."

"'The sword bit,'" Arthur repeated in a mutter.

Merlin frowned. He could have done with a little credit for fixing everything _again_.

Olaf was frowning, too, though not in light of this grievous injustice. "Boy," he said, "are you telling me I have to find my daughter's true love and let them at it?"

"Pretty much," Merlin replied.

Arthur cleared his throat. "We'll help you," he said.

Merlin's mouth fell open, the better to make way for an incredulous "We'll _what_?"

"The incident began here," Arthur said firmly, pointing at the less-dusty-than-usual floor for emphasis, "which makes it our responsibility. We'll see it through."

"You can't possibly expect me to go with you and try to find somebody _Vivian_ truly loves," Merlin protested. "That's like trying to find a needle in a haystack when there isn't a needle in the first place."

"Please pardon my extraordinarily idiotic servant," Arthur remarked to Olaf. "He's always like this; Gaius can't figure out what's wrong with his brain, though not for lack of trying."

"There's nothing wrong with my brain!" Merlin cried.

Arthur smiled winningly at Olaf. "A moment?" he asked. At the king's nod—which closely followed a glance at Merlin that made him sympathize with afancs—Arthur heaved himself out of his chair, holding his rib, and flung an arm around Merlin's shoulders. Merlin was bewildered by the warmth of the gesture only until Arthur's grip tightened to the point of being painful, and the prince hauled him over to a still-dusty corner, displaying clenched teeth and fiery eyes.

"Merlin," he bit out slowly, "listen to me. I'm going to use small words, all right? Here we go: _you are going to come and help me fix this, or I am going to make sure you never get a moment's rest again_."

"That'd be a better threat if I got a moment's rest now," Merlin retorted. "Arthur, Vivian's famous for thinking herself too good for anyone. How exactly do you propose we go about finding her true love? How do you even _measure_ true love?"

Arthur sighed. "We'll figure that out when we get there. You found—well, you fixed me; I'm sure that you, aided by someone with an advanced intellect—"

"_Hey_—"

"—will manage to duplicate the miracle." Arthur eyed him. "If we don't, Olaf will be rightfully angry, and the peace treaty will be at stake. You don't want to be responsible for war in Camelot, do you, Merlin?"

Merlin huffed. "I'm _not_ carrying your bags."

—

  
Merlin staggered under the weight of Arthur's bags.

"I think you should get a second servant sometime," he panted. "Then the two of us could mutiny."

Arthur led his horse further off the path, looking for a comfortable clearing. They'd started off a day after Olaf's departure, as Arthur had suggested they do—the less time they spent traipsing down the road alongside an enchanted Vivian, the better. It was a fine day, and the prince was in high spirits, if his willingness to taunt Merlin was any indication.

Actually, his willingness to taunt Merlin mostly just proved that Arthur was conscious.

"Didn't work so well with Cedric, as I recall."

"I recall that, too," Merlin noted. "Might've had something to do with the fact that _you hired a thief_."

"Details," Arthur said.

"Yeah, like the detail that he ended up possessed by Camelot's greatest evil sorcerer—that was my favorite bit."

"'Evil sorcerer' is redundant, Merlin."

"Speaking of redundancy," Merlin said, searching for his trailing horse's reins amongst all the luggage, "can't we just find someone to make a portrait of Vivian? She could fall in love with that."

Arthur snorted. "You must be the laziest servant alive."

"But I am alive," Merlin pointed out, "and so are you, which wouldn't be the case if I hadn't intervened."

"Letting it go to your head, Merlin?" Arthur inquired.

Before Merlin could argue, a palatable space had opened between the trees, its unimpeded breadth sufficient to accommodate them, and Arthur had ceased tramping and started to secure his horse.

"Well, Arthur," Merlin muttered under his breath, "my opinion, since you asked, is that this will make a good camp. Excellent choice. What a clever prince you are."

He made a point of dropping Arthur's baggage to the ground, pretending he didn't hear the clanging crash of mistreated armor, and stretched both arms luxuriously over his head.

"Stop dilly-dallying," Arthur reprimanded, gesturing towards the empty center of their camp. "Help me collect firewood. The sun's going down."

"Did you just say 'dilly-dallying'?" Merlin asked interestedly.

Arthur scowled at him. "What's your point?"

"I don't have one," Merlin said. "It just doesn't seem like the sort of word you'd use."

"Last time I checked," Arthur gritted out, "you were my servant, not my vocabulary tutor."

"Fiddle-faddle," Merlin replied cheerfully. "I can be both."

Arthur stormed out of the clearing muttering about semantics and homicide, so Merlin sauntered off in the other direction to look for kindling.

He was going to make sure Arthur regretted dragging him out on this ludicrous little venture. It wasn't like the prince wasn't more than capable of seeking out true loves all on his own—he could probably just stand up in the middle of Olaf's castle's courtyard and announce himself, and he'd have narrowed the search for Vivian's love down to the one or two people who didn't immediately pledge their undying adulation to him instead.

Merlin kicked a clump of pine needles, which scattered everywhere. It was all too easy to commit yourself to Arthur, even when he was being a stupid prat.

Especially when he was being a stupid prat.

Merlin clomped dutifully around the forest for a while, collecting brush that looked flammable. Arthur was right about one thing, which was that it was getting dark, though Merlin still glanced over his shoulder before using magic to make a few branches jump into the bundle in his arms.

Maybe Gaius was right, and he was getting kind of reckless these days. It wasn't his fault—or he hoped not. The dangers seemed to be redoubling, and his allies were few; he was everybody's gofer and everybody's scapegoat, and it wasn't that he was careless so much as that his back was inches from the wall. Magic was the only weapon Merlin had, and there was nothing he could do about the fact that any day now it might cut him open, too.

All right, so magicking firewood was a matter of laziness, but that was it.

Okay, maybe there were a lot of matters of laziness at work, and maybe there were times he could have talked his way out of the corner instead, but Arthur was increasingly prone to suspicious glances these days, and he didn't have much choice. Stifling the pulse of magic in his blood would be like telling a virtuoso to abandon his instrument because he'd be executed if anybody heard the sound.

A twig cracked violently under Merlin's heel, and he jumped, deciding he didn't like that analogy at all.

He cast another glance around, but there was no one watching that he could detect—no ominous shadows flitting through the trees, or at least none that were any more ominous than usual. He hefted his bundle of wood and decided he should start back for camp all the same, because Arthur would throw the usual hissy fit if everything wasn't perfectly in place. To be honest, Merlin was surprised the prince had sent him out for firewood at all, rather than telling him to sit around and polish Arthur's sword, since forest dwellers cared so much about the shininess of one's weapon.

Merlin kicked irritably at the undergrowth, then repented. In the grander scheme of things, _he_ was the undergrowth.

Well, maybe he was more shrub-level than strictly undergrowth, but he had no desire to tread on lesser plants.

Merlin looked around him, paused, and realized with an unhappily familiar feeling that he had no idea where the camp was. Arthur was going to kill him before Merlin ever had a chance to drive his master insane, which was quite a pity, since Merlin had lots of plans for how to go about it.

He turned in a circle, squinting, hoping for a spark of new orange flame amongst the trees, a sign to betray Arthur's location before Merlin's doom was sealed. Surely there was something… He tried to think like the man who would have his hide if he remained hopelessly lost, which didn't sound like a bad start. He peeked over the edge of the wood piled in his arms, looking for the trail of his wandering footsteps, which he might be able to follow back. The forest, however, was dimming as the sunlight slipped away, and Merlin had trouble picking out his own criss-crossing prints.

He sighed, glanced around him one more time, and closed his eyes, quieting the murmurs of panic, guilt, annoyance, and concern. Slowly he spread his perception, letting all his senses but sight play over the darkening world around him, mining its sounds, its scents, its soft currents and the faint humidity of its molding leaves. The forest was old—was ancient, was venerable and undisplaced. These were things Merlin understood at a level so deep he couldn't have articulated them if somebody had wanted to hear. These were things that belonged to him, that were part of him; this was the world that had inspired his soul. He was rooted in it, appropriately enough, and it reciprocated his allegiance.

He let his eyelids rise, bright gold gleaming, and felt the gentle but detectable pull of his destination. Smiling faintly, offering his silent gratitude to the deep warmth of connection, he headed towards the whispering pinpoint of Arthur and the camp.

Of course the prince was not impressed, though Merlin supposed he couldn't have known the extent of Merlin's feat. Some people took a rudimentary sense of direction very much for granted.

"Another hour, and I would have given you up for lost," Arthur noted crisply, nudging a wayward branch into the fire with the toe of his boot. "I would have been a bit put out, you know."

"I love you, too," Merlin said.

Arthur froze with one foot raised to cross his legs at the ankles. Their eyes met, Arthur's wide, impossibly wide, and blue like the depths of a roiling sea—blue like thick fog in the moonlight; blue like pennants snapping in the wind.

Merlin had seen Arthur intimidated, had seen him resolved, had seen his will triumphing over dread. Merlin had never seen him scared.

Merlin swallowed hard. All the feeling had fled from his body, the better for the horror to resonate in every nerve. He was just starting to recover awareness—the bark of the firewood prickling at his arms, the cool breath of a tentative breeze pushing at the small of his back. His blood was pounding in his ears, and he forced himself to focus on the existence of a world outside the one laid bare in Arthur's eyes.

"Prat," Merlin blurted out.

Arthur's muscles tensed more, compensating for his impulse to relax.

"Idiot," he returned, and the air was breathable again.

Merlin deposited his load of firewood a bit further from Arthur's side than strictly necessary just in case. For once, Arthur might not interpret the gesture as an attempt to keep something important out of his immediate reach, which was an accusation Merlin always staunchly denied despite the fact that it was always completely true.

Merlin sat down on the other side of the modest, crackling fire, considering it for a long moment and sneaking looks at Arthur through his eyelashes. The prince may or may not have been trying to do the exact same thing from his position, which made Merlin's insides dance even more unsettlingly than Uther tended to do after far, far too much wine.

Merlin cleared his throat. "I'm hungry," he said, since he was, and it sounded safe.

"I suspect you have a hollow leg, Merlin," Arthur replied. "It would explain your incompatibility with ordinary balance."

Merlin smiled to himself, because Arthur calling him clumsy was ground that wouldn't fall away when he least expected.

"If I feed you," Arthur continued faux-idly, "will you shut up?"

Merlin made a point of thinking it over. "The odds are pretty good, yeah."

Arthur rolled his eyes and went for the bags. "You know how fond I am of gambling."

Merlin figured that, given the number of times he'd bet his life on one of the prince's crazy ventures, Arthur could just suck it up.

—

  
The night had fully settled, and the fire was low, orange embers winking slowly and obliquely in the deepening dark. Merlin shifted onto his side, tugging at the blanket, and made a futile effort to snuggle with his pack, which was so lumpy that he wondered if he'd brought potatoes without realizing it.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked.

"Mm?"

"If you snore, I'll kill you."

"You snore."

"I do _not_."

"I tuck you in. You snore."

"You have never 'tucked me in' in your _life_, and I do _not_ snore."

"It's not your fault," Merlin assured him through a yawn. "It's probably just all that hot air in your head escaping as you sleep."

"I'm killing you first thing tomorrow."

"Shouldn't execute anyone on an empty stomach."

"I'm killing you second thing tomorrow, right after breakfast."

"Goodnight, Arthur."

"Shut up, Merlin."

There was a pause.

"Goodnight."

—

  
Some particularly noisy packing on Arthur's part dragged Merlin blearily out of his dreams the next morning. The prince had what Merlin privately called the King Thing—an air of bone-deep weariness from the weight of his responsibilities. Arthur entertained heavy thoughts some days, and Merlin could see them pushing on his shoulders and his spine.

"You snored," Merlin announced, clambering to his feet.

"I did no such thing," Arthur retorted.

"Yes, you did," Merlin informed him, rummaging for something edible. "Don't try to deny it; you can't very well have heard yourself."

"I'll have someone else disprove your slander when we reach Valden," Arthur decided.

Merlin glanced over, biting his lip on a grin. "Who exactly are you going to get to do that?"

"Vivian," Arthur answered.

Merlin gave that a moment to sink in. "You're going to let _Vivian_ watch you while you're asleep—with the state she's in?"

Arthur grimaced. "For once in your life," he said, "you have a point, Merlin. So it's a good thing I won't need any witnesses, because _I don't snore in the first place_."

"You don't have to get defensive," Merlin replied, turning up an apple and sampling it. "It's kind of cute."

Arthur stared at him in horror.

Merlin blinked as innocently as he could, but the grin was slowly winning out. "Like a kitten," he said.

Arthur looked vaguely ill.

"I'm having Olaf execute you the second we arrive," he said.

—

  
Merlin was completely unnerved by the ease of their journey.

Arguably, it might have been a good sign for coming trials that they met no bandits, no brigands, no monstrous beasts, and no sorcerers hell-bent on Camelot's destruction, but it seemed to Merlin that if the traveling went so well, the other shoe would have to fall during the next stage of their mission.

He kept his theory to himself—much as he wanted to speculate on the many ways in which Vivian, intentionally or unintentionally, might sabotage their plans—because Arthur was in the mood for clopping along on his horse, looking like something from a fairy tale, rather than for pessimistic conversation.

Really, the things Merlin did on Arthur's behalf were unbelievable. He certainly didn't keep his mouth shut for anybody else.

He was almost bursting with held-in hypotheses by the time they crossed Olaf's borders, approaching his castle and the potential for massive failure which it contained. They were escorted over the last few miles by some of Olaf's liveried knights, and people stared unabashedly as they passed. Merlin tried to keep his head down; he wasn't anything worth staring at.

At least not yet.

An icy apprehension seized his chest, an image striking him that made his blood sing cold—they'd stare if he got caught. They'd stare as the knights marched him across the yard, pushed him to his knees, and held his head down over dried blood and old death. His hands would be tied; the rope would cut into his wrists; someone would plant a firm hand between his shoulder blades, stilling his hopeless struggling as the axe blade flashed, arcing upward in preparation. He'd meet Arthur's vast and lucid eyes, and he wouldn't invoke a thousand favors and their thousand repercussions.

Why did the sorcerers never fight? There was nothing left to lose.

Merlin suppressed a sigh and watched his horse's ears flick idly. His horse didn't care who was monitoring them or why.

Merlin decided he should probably halt this train of thought now before he found himself aspiring to be a horse.

He was going to blame all of the psychological damage of this trip on Arthur.

When they reached the castle gates, Merlin noticed a man waiting off to the side of the road—a dark-haired man wearing a long coat like the one Arthur had, but gray instead of brown. He had his hands folded behind his back, and his bright blue eyes were extremely amused.

As Merlin had begun to suspect, his and Arthur's entourage stopped here, letting a farmer's wagon creak and rumble past them. Before anyone had a chance to ask, the man flashed a radiant grin.

"Welcome to Valden," he told them, and he had a funny way of hitting all the consonants and flattening the vowels. "You must be Arthur." Merlin managed to refrain from smirking contentedly at the familiarity of the address. "Pleasure to meet you, sir. I'm Harper, the captain of the guard."

"I'm Arthur," the prince confirmed, dismounting and then drawing himself to his full height, his posture even more disturbingly upright than usual. He offered the captain a hand, then used it to gesture back. "This is my servant, Merlin."

The captain grinned as Merlin hastily and ungracefully scrambled down from his horse. "Hello, Merlin. Pleasure is all mine, believe me." He addressed the pair of them next, which made Merlin happier than he would have liked to admit. "Well, friends, the reason I'm here is that you'd probably make something of a stir heading straight into town. The king and I discussed this whole project when he arrived yesterday. We've got a room set up, and Collette will take excellent care of you—and keep you out of sight, so that the Lady Vivian doesn't suspect a thing."

Arthur looked vaguely uncomfortable with the idea of deliberate deception, but he nodded decisively. "I trust King Olaf has told you the extent of the situation. We'll try to resolve the issue as efficiently as we can." He gave Merlin a warning glance. "And as subtly as possible."

Merlin successfully resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He could be subtle—he could be very subtle when he was in rooms without obstacles, when he wasn't required to generate insinuating conversation or to drop understated hints. He could be _very_ subtle if he wasn't moving, talking, or breathing too loud.

He didn't understand why people couldn't just say what they meant in the first place. When Merlin thought Arthur was being a total clotpoll, he said so, and the import of the statement was clear.

The import was that Merlin was going to suffer at Arthur's hands in lots of small and creative ways, but at least he'd gotten the point across.

"Wonderful," the captain declared. "Follow me…"

He led them through the portcullis, Merlin staggering under the burden of the bags again, as Captain Harper's quiet, sharp-eyed subordinate had taken their horses, vowing that they'd be well-attended. The captain seemed to catch a glimpse of Merlin trailing, and he very gradually slowed his step.

Merlin kind of liked this guy.

The captain guided them through slightly dusty, disused halls—the ones the servants favored, Merlin inferred from experience—where they wouldn't have much chance of being seen. Merlin wondered whether Arthur was familiar with the corresponding corridors back home; if the prince might track those lesser-used passageways sometimes. That was subtlety—to see, to hear, to move, to ghost about behind the scenes, to reappear when needed.

Admittedly, Merlin hadn't yet exactly mastered the less-used-hall strategy, though, thinking about it, it might diminish his Collisions with Important People tally considerably.

In the meantime, Harper stopped by an unremarkable door, unlocked it, and deposited them in a modest but comfortable room, ceding Arthur the key.

"Guards do rounds in the hall just there," the captain explained, pointing, "so feel free to send one after me if there's anything you need. Collette will be by soon to see to dinner and anything else. And despite all the secrecy, as far as King Olaf is concerned, the run of the castle's yours—do what you have to do." He smiled, warmly. "Thank you for being here."

Arthur, apparently detecting a kindred spirit by Harper's straight spine and dignified cordiality (or at least by the sword at his side), returned the gesture, setting his hands on his hips.

"Thank you for seeing us so well restored," he replied.

"Shit!" Merlin squeaked, stumbling into the bedframe as his effort to find a place to set the bags turned into an exercise in tumbling to the floor.

"Oh!" the captain cried, darting over immediately to start excavating Merlin from the pile of luggage. When Harper had set everything safely on the mattress, he offered Merlin a hand up. Taking it, Merlin discovered that the captain's hand was warm, firm, and calloused, crossed with little scars, his grip sure, his worry genuine. "Are you all right?" he prompted. "Bit of a nasty fall."

Merlin felt his face heating up as the impressive hands flicked over him briskly but gently, brushing off his clothes. "I'm fine," he promised. "I'm used to falling by now."

"He has a talent for putting his heels in his head's place," Arthur contributed, arms folded across his chest, looking rather impatient with the way that Harper's attention rested on someone else.

Harper clapped Merlin's shoulder and winked at Arthur. "It's quite a servant that'll take a fall for you," he commented. "If we're all in one piece, though, I'd better leave you to your work and get back to mine. Good luck, Merlin; Sire."

Arthur smiled the captain out, then turned to Merlin with an antagonized expression.

Merlin shifted his weight uncertainly. "What?"

"Do you thrive on the attention?" Arthur inquired. "I can think of a few items on the agenda more important than flirting with knights."

"I—y—_flirting_?" Merlin sputtered. "Arthur, I _fell over_."

If falling was flirting, Merlin probably would have been a lot more popular in Camelot.

"Unpack the bags," Arthur bid him, "and then we'll see the castle."

Merlin's cheeks must have been red enough to make his neckerchief jealous. "I wasn't _flirting_, Sire."

Arthur gave him an imperious look. "We don't have time to argue, Merlin."

Merlin wrenched Arthur's personal bag open, directing his black look at its contents instead of at its owner. "I can argue and unpack at once."

Arthur snatched the bag away. "This precisely why you're such a miserable servant."

Merlin tried to grab it back, catching the strap and tugging when Arthur held fast. "I wouldn't be miserable if you treated me well."

Arthur coughed up a laugh, dry and staccato. "Most men I know would have whipped you daily until you ran off, so they could justify killing you."

Merlin hauled on the bag, fighting for traction on the floor. "I didn't say 'treat me well for a servant,'" he retorted. "I said 'treat me well.' If you think you're so special, Arthur—" He dug in his heels. "—prove it. Just because you were swaddled in velvet doesn't make you any better a man. Royal blood running through your heart doesn't make it any richer. What people owe you is nothing more than what you give them first."

Arthur's face was so dark and so cold that Merlin's flaring resolution quavered.

Then Arthur let go of the bag, and Merlin's momentum slammed him straight into the armoire by the bed.

"If you want to serve me," Arthur said quietly, his gaze on the floor, "then do it. You have overstepped your bounds a thousand times, and I have forgiven you. If that doesn't speak to my heart's quality, I don't know what will."

"You told me I had to come with you," Merlin ground out, rubbing at a new bruise at the back of his head. "What's wrong with you today?"

Arthur's jaw clenched, and he turned his back, elegant muscles jerking strangely as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Just unpack."

Merlin took a deep breath, then another, cooling the anger's flame, and gathered himself to his feet. He set the bag down on the bed and started sorting through, sneaking glances at Arthur, who remained unreadable.

"We'll figure something out," Merlin ventured, looking for signs of softening. "We always do."

Arthur graced him with a withering look. "Obviously," he responded, "given that the choices are 'figure something out' or 'crawl back to Camelot permanently shamed.'"

Arthur got so melodramatic when he was upset.

Merlin folded a few tunics and put them neatly in the armoire. Arthur might notice his uncharacteristic meticulousness later and appreciate the gesture in retrospect.

"It shouldn't be all that difficult to observe Vivian," he pointed out. "She's not exactly a recluse. We'll just need a safe vantage point, and then we can start making guesses and testing them out."

Arthur said nothing. Merlin let the silence sit for a moment in case the prince was deep in thought, then concluded that Arthur never weighed his words for more than ten seconds at a stretch, which meant his moodiness was tied to something else. Merlin shelved another article of clothing, shut the armoire, and went to go perch beside Arthur on the bed, quite prepared to wait it out.

Arthur glanced at him. "What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," Merlin said blithely.

Arthur scowled and looked at the wall for a minute before his patience with the boy sitting calmly and contentedly at his side wore thin again.

"What _is_ it?" he repeated.

"Nothing," Merlin replied again. "Just waiting for you to tell me what's actually wrong."

Arthur bared his teeth. "Nothing is _wrong_, Merlin, except your insolence."

"All sorts of things are," Merlin reminded him peaceably, "and I'm just going to sit here until you tell me which one's bothering you now."

Arthur stewed for a few seconds more, tapping his foot on the floor. Merlin swung his legs and admired the ceiling, which had rather nice vaulting, to tell the truth.

"If you _must_ know," Arthur muttered at last, "it's all a bit overwhelming."

Merlin tried not to find this sudden vulnerability strange. "What's 'it'?"

Arthur rubbed his face. "All this—all the true love business. It just makes everything sound completely foreordained—done with. Like my future's laid out, and there's nothing I can do. I hate that. I hate the idea that I'm not in control of what's ahead. Things are mad enough for us already, aren't they? Doesn't it just seem like a trap to have destiny already set?"

Merlin managed a faint smile. "I don't think it'd be too bad if your destiny involved somebody you wanted to spend the rest of your life chasing after."

Arthur frowned at him. "That's not what I mean. Chasing sounds all right; chasing I can do. It's the… just—doesn't 'true love' sound sedentary? You find your true love, and you settle down, and you create true-lovechildren, and that's the end of it. That's what your life amounts to."

"Arthur," Merlin said, poking the prince's shoulder for emphasis, "you are going to be Albion's greatest king. That's your destiny. That's inevitable. The rest is just stuff to pass the time."

Arthur snorted. "True love, the famous time-killer."

Merlin grinned. "Well, how do you know? Ever been in true love before?"

Arthur picked at a thread on his tunic hem. "How do I know it's true love now?"

"You kissed her," Merlin insisted, "in the tent. Gwen. She broke the spell. It's plain as day."

"I kissed a _lot_ of people in the tent," Arthur muttered back.

Merlin paused. "You remember that?"

"It's been coming back in bits and pieces," Arthur said. He made a face. "Lady _Martha_, Merlin? She might've taken the opportunity to poison me for general arrogance."

"No," Merlin mused. "Martha's smarter than that; she'd get someone else to do it unwittingly so that she could be elsewhere with a perfect alibi."

Arthur grimaced. "Can we talk about something other than how my own courtiers would go about assassinating me?"

Merlin grinned. "But don't you want to hear about what Morgana would do?"

"She'd stab me in my sleep," Arthur rejoined crisply, "and blame it on a nightmare. Are you quite done, Merlin?"

"I hope you are," a bright voice volunteered from the doorway. Turning, Merlin discovered a girl about their age, a bit on the short side, possessed of dark hair and warm brown eyes. There was an air of such sweetness about her that she seemed prettier than she probably actually was.

"I've brought you dinner," the girl went on, hefting the broad tray in her hands for emphasis. "I'm sorry I'm late; there's been some trouble…"

"You must be Collette," Merlin said, at the same moment as Arthur cut in, "What kind of trouble?"

Merlin gave Arthur a look meant to convey _We can interrogate her about the latest disaster _after_ we've been properly introduced_, but the prince ignored him.

"That's right," Collette confirmed, smiling a little shyly. "And it's just that King Alined's sent word that his servant has run away, and anyone who catches him will get a reward. People are excited, since it's pretty likely he'd come here—we're closest to the route King Alined was taking, anyway, and King Olaf's dispatched a small contingent of knights to look for him. I guess we can't be too careful; it'd be terrible to offend Alined right after we've finally established peace."

Merlin grabbed Arthur's arm. "Trickler," he realized. "That's Alined's servant—the sorcerer."

Arthur stared at him, appalled. "Thank you for revealing everything about our presence here to the hired help," he said.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "_I'm_ hired help. Besides, Collette probably knows the castle better than anyone—don't you?"

Collette set the tray down on a low table and straightened one of the goblets, smiling at him uncertainly. "Not better than _anyone_, but I've got a bit of a way with the shortcuts, if that's what you mean."

"That's exactly what I mean," Merlin said. "Do you think you can help us?"

Collette scrubbed at a place on the table with a corner of her apron. "Help with what?" she asked curiously. "What are you trying to do?"

"Disenchant the Lady Vivian," Merlin declared, and Arthur sighed feelingly.

"Remind me," the prince noted, "that if I have a secret, it'll be safer to shout it in the square than to share it with you."

"You do have a secret," Merlin responded. "It involves true love and tents, and I haven't told anyone, except Gaius, who doesn't count, because he was right there, and I tell him everything."

Collette twirled a section of her hair around her finger, processing the news. "Milady has been acting a bit unusual," she said. "What sort of enchantment do you mean? What should we do?"

"All we ask of you," Arthur broke in, standing up to pace the room, "is that you help us navigate the castle without being seen. We need to watch what Vivian's up to and get a better sense of her regular behavior before we do anything rash." He punctuated the final word with a glance at Merlin, who pretended not to understand.

"I can do that," Collette decided, smiling more. "I serve the Lady a great deal, so I tend to know what her plans are for the day. I'm meant to go attend to her now, actually, so if you like, I can report back to you with what I find out." Her eyes lit up. "This is like being a spy."

"You are a spy," Merlin informed her, grinning back. "A spy for good, so that Lady Vivian will be all right again."

"Let us know if you learn anything," Arthur followed up. "The sooner we can get this taken care of, the better, as far as I'm concerned."

Collette nodded enthusiastically. "Enjoy your dinner, sirs," she said, and with a last grin and a curtsey, she was out the door and gone.

"'Sirs,'" Merlin noted. "Plural."

Arthur snickered, uncovering the first dish. "Maybe we shouldn't trust anyone who thinks _you _could be a _lord_."

"At least she didn't say you weren't a prat," Merlin replied.


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The craziness continues.

Merlin awoke to Arthur's foot nudging at his ribs, which he blearily supposed was better than Arthur's foot in his face.

The stories Merlin could have told.

"It's well past dawn, you know."

"We're on holiday," Merlin mumbled into the vaguely-linear pile of blankets and pillows he'd assembled on the floor.

"No," Arthur told him, "we're fighting sorcery and pursuing a matter of life and death."

"Honor and dishonor at best."

"Life and death," Arthur persisted, "because I'm going to kill you if you don't get up."

Merlin rolled over and gazed up at the disapproving prince.

"Five more minutes?" he tried.

"You have five seconds," Arthur said. "Four. Three. Two—"

Groaning, Merlin sat up, coming about level with Arthur's knees. "It's not my fault," he muttered. "I couldn't sleep. You were snoring."

Arthur growled. "Merlin, how many times do I—"

Merlin yawned, covering his mouth with one hand and stretching the other arm over his head. "We can have Collette settle it later. Aren't we supposed to be somewhere? Some other lady's birthday, or something?"

"That's exactly where we're supposed to be," Arthur responded through his grimace. "Which is why you had damn well better _get up_."

Caving, Merlin collected himself to his feet, where he rubbed his eyes and attempted to figure out where he'd left his neckerchief. Without even having to ask, Arthur plucked it from its place on the tabletop, holding it between two fingers as if it was diseased, and proffered it. Merlin beamed his thanks.

"Can't have you going around looking slightly less ridiculous than usual," Arthur muttered, opening the armoire, into which Merlin stuffed all of his erstwhile bedding.

Just as he straightened, he heard footsteps in the hall, and Collette filled them.

"Breakfast!" she announced, settling the tray on the table in between Arthur's sword belt and his riding gloves.

Merlin fell upon the food with the eagerness of one unused to making exciting breakfast discoveries. Harper hadn't been exaggerating—Collette was taking extremely good care of them so far.

"You're fantastic," Merlin informed her through a mouthful of fruit and some sweet cheese he'd never tried before.

Even as Collette smiled shyly, Arthur elbowed Merlin in the ribs. Merlin wondered if the prince sharpened his elbows on a whetstone when he'd finished with his swords, because the jab felt like the beginning of a colorful bruise.

"_Must_ you be an utter pig, Merlin?" Arthur inquired.

The temptation to say "Yes, Sire" was great, but Merlin exercised restraint. He swallowed, smiled, and pushed the tray towards Collette.

"Have you eaten yet? Go ahead; we'll be fine."

The upper half of Arthur's face disappeared behind his palm.

"Oh," Merlin realized. "You meant you."

"Yes," Arthur said, sounding like he was pouring every ounce of patience into the effort not to deck Merlin right then and there, "but you're right. Collette is welcome to our breakfast, too."

It was as simple as that, somehow—that and a few awkward fumbles when two people reached for the same thing, anyway. Merlin liked this. It was peaceful. It was nice. Arthur wasn't looking at him like he should be leaving to perform a menial task now-thank-you, like there was something about him that made him vaguely painful to see.

He and Arthur had just finished a friendly stare-down over a particularly delectable-looking roll when he heard someone walking in the hall again—smart, brisk, heavy steps. As Merlin had dared to hope, Harper peeked around the doorframe, knocking on it with a grin of greeting.

"Good morning," he bid them. "At least, I hope it is."

Harper's servant, the one who had taken their horses the day before, strolled in, carrying a tray of his own.

"Even if it isn't," he told them, "I brought tea, so it will be."

"Thank you, Ian!" Collette said happily, accepting a softly-steaming cup.

"Thanks, Ian," Merlin echoed, taking the next, considering the strangely elegant young man. His hair was short, and his smile was thin and amused, and his eyes were very, very intelligent.

Harper came up behind Ian, clapping his servant warmly on the shoulder and then leaving his hand there as he collected the penultimate cup.

"Well," he drawled, leaning on a tellingly unruffled Ian, "I stopped by to let you know there's been a problem. Did Collette tell you about Alined's servant who's on the run?"

Arthur nodded, sipping with uncharacteristic delicacy. "We're familiar with the man."

Harper hesitated. "We have one guard dead," he said slowly. "No one's seen the servant, but he might be responsible, in which case he might be loose in the castle. It's that, or Olfinn's eating habits finally caught up to him, which isn't out of the question."

"Be nice," Ian reprimanded mildly.

"This _is_ nice," Harper replied. "Anyway, everyone's on high-alert for intruders, which could be troublesome given that not too many people know that you're _supposed_ to be here. It shouldn't be too bad, but… Keep an eye out, and avoid other people's eyes as best you can. Hopefully I'll be here tonight telling you we've taken care of it, but watch your backs until then, just in case."

Merlin really didn't like the sound of that. He turned to Arthur, who was already turning to him, looking exquisitely doubtful over the rim of his teacup.

"All right," the prince said uncertainly, addressing Harper again after quirking an eyebrow at Merlin. "Thank you for the warning."

Harper set his teacup back on the tray and saluted sharply. "I'd better be getting back to work now—best of luck. Can you see to the tea, Collette? I need to borrow this." He tugged on Ian's sleeve, and the servant gave a small and knowing smile.

Collette grinned. "Of course, Captain."

Harper guided Ian out with a hand on his servant's shoulder, and Arthur turned to Collette.

"When does the event begin?" he asked.

"Within the quarter-hour," Collette reported, "but we'll have plenty of time. Whenever you're finished—"

"We're finished," Arthur said.

Merlin, who was halfway through a really wonderful sausage, stared at him, betrayed. Arthur made a point of ignoring him.

Collette hid a smile. "Of course, Sire," she replied, getting up from the table to sweep a quick curtsey. "Just follow me, then."

They were out the door in thirty seconds, and only that long because Merlin had gulped down the rest of his tea, to the slight scalding of the roof of his mouth. Arthur locked the room behind them, Collette having collected the detritus of their breakfast, and off they went, trailing her who-knew-where.

She led them through a series of nondescript, narrow halls, more unremarkable corridors servants might roam, and then stopped before a wall opposite a window that stood open to the sky beyond, no glass or even parchment in the frame.

"Sorry, can one of you hold this?" she asked distractedly, and Merlin took the tray. Unburdened now, Collette ran her fingers down a long seam in the stone, lightly until she reached a jagged crack about chest-height, where two large blocks of the wall had been imperfectly joined. Here she dug her fingers in and, after glancing one way and then the other, began to pull.

There was a low grinding and a soft creak, and then a door in the very stone opened just about two feet—room enough for a person to slip inside and venture into what appeared to be a hidden passageway, dark and swathed in spiders' webs.

"Wow," Merlin said helplessly, a familiar excitement—the excitement reserved for the unknown and intriguing—setting his heart to jittering in his chest.

Arthur's eyes were wide, his lips parted in wonder. "Do we have anything like this in Camelot?"

"Unfortunately not," Merlin answered, grinning. A contented Collette darted into the uncovered corridor and beckoned, and he angled the tray as he sidled in after.

"Are you sure?" Arthur prompted, considering the space, giving the cobwebs a particularly dubious look.

"Yes," Merlin responded as the prince squeezed through the gap.

"There's a bar on the door," Collette interjected idly, apparently accustomed to their conversational habits by now. "If you pull it closed, that'll be that…"

"Maybe you just haven't found them," Arthur remarked to his servant as he obliged, the floor shuddering detectably as the door slammed shut.

"If there were," Merlin told him, "I would have fallen into one on accident when I was late for something."

Arthur was quiet, though that might have been partly because the entire corridor had gone pitch-black.

"It's all right," Collette said gently. "Just put a hand out; the wall's close. Follow my voice, and shout if you'd like me to slow down."

"Go ahead," Arthur bid her. "Hurry up, Merlin."

Collette's footsteps started off into the dark, and Merlin hastened after, struggling to keep pace without crashing into her or dropping the tray he clutched in both hands. His right shoulder scraped against the wall as he drifted off of a straight course—or as the tunnel turned—and he clenched his teeth, straining to hear Collette's footfalls over the echoes of hers, his, and Arthur's sure gait. He badly wanted to summon witchlight, contained flame, _something_—he wanted a shred of illumination before his face became intimately acquainted with the gritty floor.

Arthur bumped into him, all elbows and momentum, and Merlin stumbled enough to make the teacups clatter.

"Could you _be_ any clumsier?" Arthur muttered, unseen hands grasping Merlin's shoulders to steady him.

"I can try if you like," Merlin managed, struggling not to stagger even more, unbalanced by the weight and warmth of Arthur's hands. One of those weights lifted, and Merlin faintly heard it brushing the closest wall, but the other stayed.

"How much further, Collette?" the prince inquired.

"The door's just here," she declared, and Merlin heard soft scrabbling. Arthur's hand on his shoulder drew him to a stop but still—inexplicably—didn't release its hold. Merlin's lungs didn't seem to be functioning right.

Momentarily, a crack of light appeared in the midst of the blackness, and Merlin instinctively flinched. Arthur's thumb skimmed down his shoulder-blade, and his heartbeat hammered in his ears.

He'd always kind of wondered if his ears were situated in a way that would magnify that kind of a sound. Maybe he'd get to find out.

Collette eased the door open, establishing a gap about the same size as the one at the entrance. Arthur guided Merlin forward when Collette had passed through, and he tripped out as best he could, holding tight to the tray, squinting in the sudden brightness of the new hall. He heard Arthur slip out deftly behind him.

"Where are we now?" Arthur asked.

Collette gave Merlin a smile and took the tray back from him at long last. It looked a lot safer in her grip.

"Head through that door—" She pointed to a regular wooden one just down the hall. "—and you'll be on the balcony above the dining room where the party's being held. No one goes up there much, so if you stay low, nobody ought to be the wiser."

Arthur looked over, somewhat impressed. "That's extremely convenient. Thank you."

Collette smiled warmly, dropped them another curtsey without so much as tipping the tray, and started off to attend to her own duties.

"Well," Merlin said. "Let's see."

Arthur nodded, cracking his knuckles, and led the way.

The balcony, as it turned out, afforded them an excellent view of the large room below. There were long tables laid with sophisticated food, and unfamiliar ladies in beautiful dresses flocked back and forth between them. Merlin and Arthur crouched behind the balcony's low wall, peering over the edge.

"Not much of a party without any wine," Arthur muttered.

"Looks like good food, though," Merlin whispered back.

"You _just_ ate," Arthur reminded him, shooting him a look. "Are _both_ your legs hollow? Is that why you trip over your own feet?" Merlin shrugged, and the prince rolled his eyes. "Tell me if you see Vivian."

Merlin scanned the crowd for cascading blonde curls. "Maybe she's not here yet."

"No," Arthur cut in grimly. "There. By the window."

Merlin picked her out—radiant in a vibrant pink gown, her elfin face turned towards the windowpane, the picture of regret and utmost wistfulness. The chatter of the other ladies drowned out any sound, but Merlin saw her shoulders lift in a heartfelt sigh.

Arthur was grimacing.

"Yes," Merlin decided of the image. "Yes, that's got to change."

Arthur's face was dark. "How could anyone do that?" he demanded. "How could anyone treat another human being like that? That's abusive. It's wrong."

"We'll fix it," Merlin promised.

Arthur's eyes were on Vivian as he slowly shook his head. "Sorcerers have too much power, Merlin—too much power to control others. Too much power to destroy."

Merlin held his tongue, watching the ladies' gauzy gowns drift like butterflies—like Trickler's butterflies, bright and insubstantial. The Dragon had raved a dozen times about the ascension of magic, of the old world arising, of the time for sorcery arriving under Arthur's reign—but sometimes that was hard to believe. What if Arthur took after his father in that respect? He could be a just king without being a lenient one. How could the Dragon know the future when it didn't even know how to free itself from iron chains?

The silence bowed between them, heavy with Arthur's vague surprise—Merlin wouldn't usually miss an opportunity to opine on any subject, and his sudden reticence was probably pretty startling.

"There's Collette," Merlin observed when their friend emerged onto the scene, her dark hair brushed and shining, her stride graceful, her smile sweet. She offered drinks to various ladies, who barely saw her—a selective invisibility with which Merlin sympathized. A servant didn't exist until he tripped and spilled good ale all over the king.

Not that Merlin knew anything about that.

Arthur's gaze flicked over the assembled company. "Evidently she's still under the spell. I think we've seen enough."

"Wait," Merlin told him, catching his arm as a confident young lord strolled out into the room, earning batted eyelashes and tittering discussion everywhere he went. He sought out a lady in a lavender dress and bowed low to kiss her hand—that must have been the woman whose birthday it was.

"Vivian _would_ love a dandy," Arthur muttered of the man's long gold hair and pristine doublet.

Merlin grinned. "Jealous?"

"I'd like to see him use that sword," Arthur grumbled of the silver foil at the newcomer's side, completely ignoring Merlin's remark.

Dandy or otherwise, the lord swaggered over to Vivian, leaning in to speak to her. Vivian drew another deep sigh and turned away, offering what, by the gentleman's surprise, was a very unexpected response.

"He's a candidate," Merlin concluded.

"Conceded," Arthur murmured back. The lord retreated, attempting to regain his composure, and Collette swept in with a plateful of pastries, which she pushed gently at an inconsolable Vivian. "We'll have to find out who he is and interview him."

"Collette can probably tell us who's who in court," Merlin remarked. "And we can probably get Olaf to let us take them aside. Vivian's not exactly shy; I can't imagine anybody wouldn't know if she was in love with him."

—

  
Everything went to plan except for a single detail: Lord Fabian thought _everybody_ was in love with him.

"What do you think of this color?" he asked the moment they had caught him alone 'for a word.' "Be honest—my servants say it brings out my eyes, but I'm concerned it dulls my complexion."

Smoothing the green silk doublet, he stood with his face tilted to give them the best possible view of his cheek.

"Um," Merlin said. "It's nice…"

"Lord Fabian," Arthur interjected as the man perked up at Merlin's fumbling compliment, "we need to know if you can help us by answering a few questions about the Lady Vivian."

"Ah," Fabian sighed contentedly, his admittedly very-green eyes going slightly glassy. "Vivian, my heart's keeper. My soul's jailer. My… well."

"Quite," Arthur said slowly, looking a little bit queasy. "Has your… soul's… jailer been acting unusual in any way?"

Fabian considered solemnly, and his eyes lit from within. The effect was striking, and Merlin was starting to understand why this man garnered giggles from the ladies wherever he went.

"Now that you mention it," he remarked, "she's been rather different lately. Did you attend the party? You see, I always speak to her, and I try to give her at least a fair insight into my overwhelming feelings for her ladyship—sometimes I write a sonnet, or bring flowers; I'm sure you know what I mean." He patted Merlin's arm. "Generally, she tells me not to waste my time with trifles, because her father will have me killed if he finds me wooing her too vigorously."

"He will, you know," was Arthur's comment. The prince sounded like he wouldn't particularly mind seeing Fabian lose his blindingly-golden head.

Fabian, however, waved a negligent hand. "He'd never get me to the executioner's block; the ladies dote on me far too much. That aside, today the Lady Vivian said nothing of the sort—only sighed a lot and told me that her love and affections belonged to another, and time and distance could not sunder them apart."

"…'sunder them apart'?" Merlin repeated uncertainly.

"That's what she said," Fabian mused. "I think her grammar is suffering along with her soul."

Arthur cleared his throat. "But usually she favors you?" he prompted.

Fabian cocked his head, lustrous golden hair pooling on his shoulders. "All the ladies favor me," he answered. "I suppose she's just playing hard to get, eh?" He smoothed and straightened his immaculate clothes. "But do tell me—who exactly are you, sirs, to be asking?"

Belated as it was, Merlin was somewhat impressed that Fabian had thought to turn the interrogation around. Better still, the information he had given them included nothing they hadn't already inferred.

"We're friends of the king," Arthur responded without so much as a hiccup of hesitation. "We're visiting."

"Sightseeing," Merlin added helpfully.

"Right," Arthur took up reluctantly, his jaw clenching, and Merlin wondered what he'd said wrong this time. "And we supposed we ought to get a better understanding of the workings of the court while we're here. We'd hate to step on the wrong person's toes."

"I do that a lot," Merlin volunteered. "Step on people's toes."

Fabian was beaming at him, and the young lord patted his shoulder fondly. "Delightful," he said. "But you simply _must_ come hunting with me tomorrow morning, then! Nobody knows the ins and outs of the court better than I do, and today promises lovely weather. Meet me in the courtyard early?"

Arthur stumbled over an answer, and Merlin couldn't even produce words.

"Wonderful!" Fabian decided, golden eyebrows rising, his broad smile ever so slightly catlike. "I'll see you then. Good day, gentlemen…"

With one last touch to Merlin's arm, he drifted off in a rush of green silk and faint perfume.

Arthur was giving Merlin an incinerating look.

"What?" Merlin asked unhappily. "I thought 'sightseeing' was good; I thought he'd leave us alone."

"Not _that_," Arthur said impatiently. "_Must_ you flirt with _everyone_ we meet?"

Merlin stared at him. "Wh—I—_flirt_? I wasn't _flirting_!"

"I can't believe he snared us like that," Arthur muttered, starting back to their room, where Collette had subtly signaled that she'd meet them as the party had been drawing to a close.

"He's smarter than he looks," Merlin noted, "and than he acts. That's probably a good strategy in his position, really."

Arthur's eyes flicked sideways, and one of his hands rose to toy with the worn leather of his belt. "Evidently it's effective," he replied, "but I prefer antagonism I can see in order to fight it."

"He's not an _antagonist_," Merlin protested, slightly surprised. "He invited us to go hunting. You love hunting. You'll hunt anything, even if we end up with a curse on Camelot for it."

"Cheap shot," Arthur muttered.

Merlin grinned. "Sorry."

"You're not sorry at all, you rotter," Arthur returned, unlocking their chamber door. "Let's get a list from Collette of the eligible lords, then wait until we know Vivian's occupied and speak to as many of them as we can."

Merlin went to the bed and sat, and Arthur joined him. Merlin looked over, somewhat tentatively, as his doubts momentarily outweighed his optimism.

"What if she's not in love with any of them?" he asked. "She seems to know how dangerous it is to show any man affection—it's actually almost generous how she puts them off, since Olaf would ruin them. But maybe that means she wouldn't dare to love anyone. Maybe that means she doesn't even know how."

That was a sad thought for Merlin Emrys. That was a twinge of tragedy, because Merlin loved so widely, so wholly, that losing the capability would mean cutting out his core.

"She's strong-willed, though," Arthur sighed, planting his hands behind him on the mattress and leaning back. "And vain. I can't imagine that she'd pass up the chance to take her pick of worshipers."

Merlin smiled. He could think of someone else who fit that description.

Arthur tapped his boot heel against the footboard. "Collette ought to be here by now. Go and fetch her, Merlin."

"I'm not a _dog_," Merlin objected, staring.

Arthur grinned wickedly. "Go on, Merlin!" he enthused. "Go on, find Collette! There's a good boy."

"I think you're the one with a mental affliction," Merlin said, but he went.

He started back the way they'd come, and then he realized—of course Collette was a little delayed; she wasn't likely to take the secret-passage shortcut just to hurry back to them. Besides, in Merlin's experience, the slowest-running servant tended to get promoted to room-cleaner after a party like that one.

He supposed he might as well head back there and help her; the two of them would finish the job faster, and he wouldn't have to listen to one of Arthur's laziness rants, which he had catalogued alphabetically by opening sentence by now.

_Amazingly enough, Merlin, some of us actually take pride in our work._

That was one of his favorites; he always interrupted with "What do you mean, 'our'?"

_Can't you pay attention for the _two minutes _it takes to finish something?_

Merlin would purposefully let something on the other side of the room catch his eye.

_Every time I turn around, you've managed to create a new disaster._

That wasn't laziness; that was consistency. That was _talent_.

_For the love of all that's sacred—!_

Arthur would bury both hands in his hair at the start of that one, and then it would stick that way, and Merlin wouldn't tell him.

Grinning to himself as he progressed through the _H_s, Merlin swung around a corner, hoping that the vague resignation settling in his stomach wasn't his brain's way of telling him he was lost again.

Perhaps it was instead his gut's way of telling him that he was in deep, deep trouble.

Grimy, travelstained, and bruised, the man at the other end of the hall cut a very different figure than he had at their last encounter. All the same, the malicious simper was the only feature Merlin needed to see—there was no one in the world that he would have been less happy to find opposite him right now, unless Nimueh were to be raised from the dead.

"I know you," the jester said slowly, the corners of his lips curling like paper in a flame. "You're Merlin. You're Prince Arthur's boy."

Merlin swallowed, taking one unsteady step away, then another, and a third. A deep and persuasive instinct was urging him to flee.

"Merlin," Trickler said again, wrapping his tongue around the R. "The very boy who brought me here."

"That wasn't my fault," Merlin blurted out, stumbling back another step. There was something _wrong_ with Trickler now—something different than before. There was something around him, some field, some aura, and Merlin could feel it. He could sense it rippling, raging, pulsating with pent-up energy crackling as it pushed for freedom. There was a new gleam in Trickler's eyes.

"Why didn't you just break the chains?" Merlin went on helplessly, backing cautiously away.

Trickler took one skipping step forward to follow. Broken bells jingled tinnily.

"I broke the chains, Merlin," came the singsong reply. "I shattered them into a hundred shards and flung them at the soldiers who had locked me up. I severed one man's jugular with a single piece. Just like butterflies, Merlin—exactly like butterflies."

Merlin bit his tongue, then focused on crafting a judicious response—a response that wouldn't get him killed. He took one more careful pace backwards.

"Why'd you let Alined treat you that way?" he inquired, steadying his voice. "I mean—even when you were doing everything he said, he was awful to you. You had the power to escape him all along."

Trickler tilted his head, doglike, birdlike, with the smile that made Merlin's stomach turn—cold and almost vacant, except that you could see the predator's intelligence. Something had snapped. Trickler would be no one's fool.

"King Alined is my brother," Trickler murmured, his smile flickering wider at Merlin's shock. "That's why I've spared him again. That's why I always have; that's why—that's why we worked so hard…"

Trickler paused, gazing into space, his hands flexing. Merlin didn't hesitate: he spun on his heel and ran.

He hurtled down the first corridor he saw, flooded with a tide of relief to match the adrenaline when no dead end abbreviated his intended path. A burst of magic seared the wall just behind him, sizzling, and Merlin's boots skidded as he glanced over his shoulder to find Trickler skipping blithely into sight, raising his hand again, and Merlin jerked his own arm up faster, halting in mid-step and whispering the words to lift a shield.

Trickler's eyes widened delightedly.

"Arthur's boy," he mused, "and Uther's bane. Isn't _that_ a pretty picture?"

Merlin clenched his fists, his opalescent barrier shimmering.

"I've saved Uther's life a dozen times," he said. "I'm not dangerous; I'm nobody's _bane_—"

"And yet he would watch you burn," Trickler remarked, pensive, pondering. "Do you find that strange? Isn't that how it always goes? Would you die for Uther's pride, Merlin?"

"What difference does it make?" Merlin cut in, his eyes on the rags and tatters of Trickler's finery. The sorcerer was a desperate man; he'd say anything he needed to, imply whatever he wished. None of the philosophy was important now. "Did you kill that guard?"

Trickler smiled and swung a halfhearted spell at Merlin's shield, which shuddered but held. "What if someone finds you here?" the jester inquired. "What if the prince finds out what you really are?"

"Get out," Merlin told him. "Leave Olaf alone. What do you want? Haven't we all suffered enough from what you and Alined did?"

Trickler pushed up his sleeves, angled his head curiously again, and murmured a long set of words, of which Merlin recognized enough to start fortifying his shield, steeling himself against what was to come.

What came was a tremendous blow, all furious lightning and slamming force, the resonation of which burrowed through Merlin's gleaming bulwark, bright light searing with a hint of sulfur. Merlin's heart was in his throat, choking him as it swelled and pounded, and he couldn't muster the words for reinforcement, let alone retaliation. His hands were tingling, and his head spun. Hoping desperately that his defenses would hold, once again Merlin turned and ran.

Trickler's laugh rang on the pale walls, following him with a poignant derision, but he heard no footsteps in pursuit.

These halls were all the same—all stone and dust, all sharp-angled labyrinth—and Merlin was just racing through the castle taking any passage that appeared. It was all twists and turns; all switches and switchbacks; all slick floors and narrow halls devoid of humanity. Why was the whole world empty when he _wanted_ to collide with someone?

Panting, gasping, staggering, Merlin stumbled to a halt in some indistinguishable intersection. He bent double, trying to catch his breath, some rational part of him knowing beyond a doubt that he needed to clear his head and focus on his next move. He swallowed, straightened, and looked around—more halls, more stone. It struck him that he should try to make his way outside, where he could seek out a guard and plead for an escort back to his and Arthur's room—or send for Captain Harper. Maybe both; Harper should know that Trickler was loose and violently-inclined. Merlin gnawed at his lip, running a hand through his hair. He didn't know where Trickler was _now_, and he still didn't have the faintest idea of the sorcerer's larger intentions. Was he just hiding to keep out of Alined's hands? Could he mean further harm to Vivian—and why? What more could he do to her now?

Merlin rubbed his face with both hands, sorting through his options, searching for clarity amongst the muddle of potentialities.

A heavy hand descended on his shoulder, and Merlin screamed.

The hand relocated with the speed of a sprung trap, settling over his mouth instead, and Merlin scrabbled at it heedlessly until he heard a familiar voice by his ear.

"Slow down, there, Merlin." It sounded torn between a chuckle and concern, and Merlin relaxed. "I thought you were going to pop right out of your skin."

Harper's warm, steady palm retreated, and Merlin turned to him, managing a shaky smile.

"Bad news," he said.

—

  
"_Mer_lin," Arthur gritted out, leaping from a surly slouch to upright anger in the blink of an eye. "What in the _hell_—"

"Trickler's here," Harper announced, folding his arms, before Merlin could speak. "Merlin ran into him."

"Merlin would," Arthur sighed.

"We're putting the guard on special alert," Harper continued, starting to pace the room now, clasping his hands behind his back. "But if he's already inside…"

"There are enough secret passages and unused rooms to sustain him as long as he likes," Collette filled in, twisting her hands in her apron.

Arthur cocked a hip to set his hand on his sword hilt, which made Merlin feel even less disposed to try to speak.

"Then we'll have to draw him out," the prince declared.

Harper frowned. "You've got your job," he noted, "and I have mine. Let's keep them separate—they're equally important. People will notice tighter security, and suspicions are only going to keep rising from there. You two shouldn't waste any time."

Arthur fingered the pommel of his sword. "If we catch Trickler, there will no longer be a threat, and Merlin and I will have much more room to maneuver. Can't you use a few more men? Why divide our power?"

Detecting the first strains of a lengthy argument, Merlin went and sat down at the table beside Collette, who gently touched his arm.

"Are you all right?" she whispered.

Merlin summoned a smile for her. "I'll manage," he said.

"Did he hurt you?" she asked urgently.

"He didn't get close enough," Merlin responded, as it was technically the truth.

"I guess that's something to be thankful for," she resolved. She motioned to a piece of paper on the table, upon which there looked to be a column of names. "Here—I was listing the lords at court most likely to have Lady Vivian's favor."

Merlin's rising hope nose-dived again. It was a long list.

"Maybe we can get them all to come to us," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe we can write them notes or something—you and I could deliver them; we could ask them to visit us at various times. Then we wouldn't have to worry about Vivian seeing us, either."

"Arthur," Harper stated, raising his voice just a fraction over the prince's, letting it drop again when Arthur's jaw snapped shut. "_Thank you_, truly, for the offer, but we can take care of it. It's more important that you make the Lady Vivian your first priority."

Merlin watched Arthur's closed expression. Had the prince actually been outwilled? Arthur's stubbornness was legendary, at least in Merlin's mind. This was the bloodless equivalent of a fight to the death.

"We've had experience with all manner of sorcery," Arthur said, levelly, his hand on his sword hilt. "Send us a message if you change your mind."

Merlin stared in wonder. Olaf had employed some kind of _god_.

Speaking of the incredible being, Harper smiled, and Merlin detected a shade of relief in the expression. "I will," he promised. "Thank you." Before another argument could escape Arthur's tenuous restraint, Harper set a hand over his heart, half-bowed, and smartly marched off to gather forces against the threat.

Collette cleared her throat tactfully, straightening the list on the tabletop, and Arthur rubbed at the back of his head, drew a deep breath, and joined them.

"Let's get to work," he said.

—

  
They'd written and delivered a dozen missives by the time they settled to go to bed, Arthur blowing out the candles all on his own for once. Merlin stretched extravagantly, then curled up among his pillows, wrapping his arms around one of them.

"Goodnight, Arthur," he said, closing his eyes.

Arthur grunted something unintelligible in reply, and the mattress wheezed as he collapsed onto it. The prince had been vaguely petulant all evening, though he'd taken pains to speak politely. After all this time, Merlin didn't even take offense—Arthur was anxious, and this was how it always showed. He would be better-humored in the morning, when they had tasks set out and were moving and accomplishing things. Arthur was no good at standing still, at planning, at hoping for the best instead of reaching out to take it. Merlin nestled into his pillow, smiling a little. He was still a prince, and rightly so. The wisdom bit would come.

The night deepened. Merlin dozed.

_"Warlock…"_

He started awake.

_"Merlin…"_

Merlin sat up, batting the blankets aside, scouring the darkness of the room. Furniture and floor were bluish in the moonlight, the shadows thick, and Arthur's breathing was rough-edged with gentle snores.

_"I'm here, Merlin…"_

Heart pounding in his ears again, Merlin scoured the dimness, swiveling, searching for a sign, for an anomaly, for the horror tucked away and poised to pounce—

_"Mer… lin…"_

Trickler's voice, so close—too close; it had to be under the bed, buried in his blanket nest, knitted into his pillow—where was it? How? The room had cooled; he gasped in prickling air and begged his eyes to breach the darkness; he could at least know where to _run_—

_"Merlin…"_

Too close. Too close to be anywhere except _inside his mind_.

Merlin could hear it now—could detect the unique echo of invasion, the way a voice played off of nothing but the inside of his skull.

_"Come to me, Merlin, or I will come to you."_

Merlin held both hands over his ears, thinking it might be different, that he might be able to block it out this time—

_"I'm coming, Merlin."_

"Stop," Merlin whispered, clutching at his ears, his eyes squeezed shut, drawing his knees up to his chest. Maybe he could become so small that he would disappear.

"Merlin—"

A hand grasped his shoulder, and he jerked away, writhing, swallowing a ragged scream, but then he dared to look. It was Arthur, having slipped down from the bed; the prince's eyes were bleary and bewildered, and he caught Merlin's arm again.

"What the—"

_"I'll find you—"_

"—hell is wrong with you—"

"_Merlin_?"

The unison made Merlin want to tear out his eardrums and crush them underneath his heel. He clenched his fingers in his hair, ignoring the faint, increasing pain as Arthur's grip tightened.

"Merlin," Arthur persisted, "what's wrong?"

_"I know you, Merlin."_

"Merlin—"

"He's in my head!" Merlin blurted out, squirming, fighting Arthur's grasp. "He's—like the others; he won't—"

_"You're mine."_

"Stop!" Merlin howled, clawing at his ears. "Leave me alone, _please_! I don't—"

Arthur struck like lightning, immovable hands closing around Merlin's wrists, holding them away no matter how Merlin struggled to pull free.

"Have you lost your mind?" the prince hissed. "Stay _still_! There's no one here!"

"He'll _find_ me—" Merlin managed breathlessly.

The next he knew, his nose was being squished into Arthur's collarbone. The prince had one firm arm wrapped tightly around him, the other hand restricting both of Merlin's at once. Merlin wriggled helplessly, but more hesitantly now, composure slowly seeping back. The blind, careening terror was fading into a lower beat of rational fear. Arthur's cheek brushed his, warm and slightly rough, and the prince's voice was soft.

"Merlin," he said, "I've got you. No one's here. No one's coming. No one is going to find you."

"Yeah," Merlin panted, more concerned now with Arthur's all-too-tangible proximity than with Trickler's potential. "I—I know. It's fine. Sorry. I had a nightmare. I'm sorry."

Arthur released Merlin's hands—his fingers had been tingling with the beginnings of numbness—and drew back. Swallowing hard, meeting the prince's dark, calm eyes, Merlin thought the worst was over.

Then Arthur's palm flattened itself against his cheek, fingertips at his temple, heel at his jaw, too warm and far, far too real.

"You are a thousand mysteries at once," Arthur said.

Merlin's voice shook as he forced himself to speak. "May I take that as a compliment, Sire?"

Arthur used his leverage on Merlin's face to shove him gently. "Not on your life, idiot." The prince unfolded to his feet and brushed the wrinkles out of his nightclothes. Merlin blinked up at him as the cold rushed in, and Arthur met his gaze for a long, quiet moment.

"Sorry," Merlin managed again.

"Come here, Merlin," Arthur replied.

Uncertainly, Merlin clambered up to await instruction.

Arthur climbed onto the far side of the bed and then held the other half of the covers back.

"If you mention snoring," he said, "you can go straight back to sleeping on the floor."

Staggered, Merlin stood dumbly, staring at the hollow in the sheets. "I—it's all right; I couldn't—"

"Get into the bed, Merlin." Arthur sounded almost bored, but a careful glance revealed that his eyes were strangely bright.

"But—"

"_Now_."

Merlin steeled himself and obeyed.

"Are you made of knees and elbows?" Arthur inquired over the creaking of the bed-frame.

"No," Merlin muttered, attempting to become as inconspicuous as possible. "Mysteries, like you said."

"Your tongue is going to get you executed someday," Arthur informed him through a yawn.

Merlin thought of half-guttural, half-delicate words and wondered if he was right.

—

  
Merlin awoke when Arthur dropped his neckerchief onto his face, from some height.

"Early," Merlin groaned, fumbling to pull it off. It wasn't a particularly coherent objection, but it got the point across.

"That's right, Merlin," Arthur told him, tossing a coat onto his back despite his attempts to squirm out of the way. "Time to go hunting, which _you_ got us into."

Merlin dragged himself off of the bed and stood, scrubbing at his eyes. "Not my fault."

Arthur smirked. "This is what you get for flirting with Fabian."

Merlin pulled the knot on his neckerchief too tightly in his surprise and had to gasp before he could speak.

"I wasn't _flirting_," he protested; "I was _humoring_ him, like I humor you every minute of the day."

"Perfect," Arthur fired back. "Humor me today and don't embarrass me in front of an entire hunting party." He frowned. "People are used to you in Camelot. Other people don't tend to understand why I let you get away with your behavior."

"I keep you honest," Merlin pointed out. "And slightly less arrogant than you would be otherwise."

He smiled winningly as Arthur shot him a black look.

—

  
He kind of missed the black look by the time they were out in the forest, surrounded by unfamiliar trees and unfamiliar companions. Traipsing around trying to help Arthur kill things was never pleasant, per se, but at least it was consistent and comprehensible—Merlin had no idea how any of these lords and their lackeys would respond to someone who tripped over his own feet as often as his tongue.

Which was really saying something, in Merlin's case.

The situation was all the more worrying given that he wasn't in a position to alienate anyone, as they needed the courtiers' favor if they were going to close in on Vivian's true love by collective hearsay.

Thinking about it, the plan sounded even shakier if you put it like that.

Focusing, Merlin saw that Arthur was deftly conversing with a broad-shouldered lord who seemed to be taking to him, ceding him conspiratorial smiles already. The prince worked quickly and effectively with everything he attempted, as far as Merlin could tell.

Merlin realized, none too happily, that he should try his best to keep up. It couldn't be _too_ hard to befriend a nobleman and get him talking about Vivian. In fact, odds were she was everyone's favorite subject right now, especially in her altered state.

Cautiously, he sidled up beside a friendly-looking lord—young, with curly blond hair and blue eyes, whose name Merlin could justify asking, because he hadn't been told and merely forgotten, as was the case with much of their company.

"Nice weather," Merlin ventured.

The lord smiled at him. "Could stand to be a little cooler," he remarked, tugging at his collar and pulling a face, "but rather nice, yes."

"I'm not from around here," Merlin added, thinking that Arthur would not approve of advertising their connection to Camelot. "It's really very… interesting." Hopefully that was a sufficiently noncommittal word.

The young lord grinned. "I imagine," he replied. "No one rules quite like our Olaf does, eh?"

"No one I've met," Merlin noted. "And no one raises a child like he does—the Lady Vivian's like a goddess. I know I've never seen that before."

"Oh?" the lord inquired, smiling still, amused now. "By our example, I would have thought all kings' heirs were deified."

"Only in their own minds," Merlin replied, resisting the urge to glare at Arthur's back.

"I suppose Lady Vivian is special in that way," the lord said, holding a branch aside for Merlin and nodding at the half-gushing, half-disbelieving thanks. "I guess if you worship anyone enough, she'll start to think it's her due."

"D'you think she feels that way about anyone?" Merlin asked, struggling to sound casual. "She could elevate someone that way—using the power of her position, if she liked someone enough."

The lord laughed, his pale eyes sparking. "Vivian?" he prompted. "She wouldn't take that kind of risk for anyone. Honestly, I don't think she would want to exert the effort. She'd prefer to be the only one in the court we all gaze up at. Wouldn't you protect your glory instead of sharing it?"

"Nonsense," a new voice cut in, and Merlin turned to see the red-faced, bulky man who owned it. There was a spear balanced against his shoulder, and there was something of a deep investment in his earnestness. "She's besotted with someone now—haven't you heard?"

Merlin's first lord frowned. "I hadn't," he said. "That's unlike her. Must be some kind of ploy—we'll all pay more attention now, won't we? If she changes her habits and won't explain?"

"You haven't seen her," the larger man contended. "She's all out of sorts, and everyone's looking at her sideways; it'd be mad to put on that kind of an act."

A third lord popped up, slightly startlingly, at Merlin's elbow—younger even than the first, dark and sprightly, with shining eyes.

"Maybe she's mad, then," he suggested cheerfully. "Wouldn't that be a fitting end for the siren?"

"No one deserves to go mad for love," the larger lord demurred.

"You would know?" the newest chirped.

"She's not mad anyway," the first interjected. "Olaf would never let her be seen in court if he thought she'd lost her mind."

"But what better way is there to put us off?" the youngest retorted. "No one wants damaged goods."

The brawny lord growled. "I'll damage _your_ goods if you don't stop defaming her—"

"Defaming?" came the bright reply. "My dear sir, you have me all wrong: defamation is when it's _not_ true. This is slander."

Only the most sharply-honed of self-preservation instincts permitted Merlin to dive out of the way as the big lord descended upon the littlest, roaring about Vivian's upright moral character and unassailable reputation—impressively, in almost exactly those words.

Instantaneously, the other noblemen had gathered around the fight, in which the younger lord was holding his own rather well, using his agility very much to his advantage. Bets were made, calls of encouragement rang through the forest, and Arthur gave Merlin a look that clearly demanded, _What the hell did you do _this_ time?_

Helplessly, Merlin shrugged.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The insanity increases.

Amazingly, after the fight had been broken up, all and sundry made it through the rest of the trip unscathed—though Merlin didn't think he was likely to remain unscathed, if the looks Arthur was shooting him were any indication.

Merlin found that unfair. After the little "slander" hiccup, the rest of the excursion proceeded rather well: Sir Humbert, whom Merlin had learned had his eye on Vivian's cousin Genevieve, had hunted down and swiftly killed a majestic stag, and all the men had forgone their differences to bond over the brutal and unnecessary death of a beautiful animal. Merlin had spent that portion of the adventure wandering around the surrounding forest, pouting and trying not to feel complicit, but no one had commented, and it seemed like everything had settled very nicely, on the whole.

As they started back, someone sidled up beside Merlin and threw an arm around his shoulders. Merlin jumped, turned as much as the individual's grip allowed, and discovered Fabian, fresh-faced and beaming.

"I admire your dedication, Merlin," he declared, tossing his gleaming hair for no apparent reason. "You're very good at what you do."

"Thank you, sir," Merlin said, deciding that he would have to revise his opinion of Fabian, who was evidently completely oblivious to reality.

"It's really quite rare to find servants with such… tenacity," Fabian went on. "I find it inspiring."

"Um," Merlin said in a way he hoped was encouraging. He was starting to think that this was one of those conversations where the other person was dropping hints under the erroneous impression that Merlin would pick them up. The truth was that Merlin usually ended up in a vast field of fallen clues, none of which had adhered to him. He had a talent for incomprehension.

If you put it that way, maybe he _did_ qualify as 'mentally-afflicted.'

He would not be telling Arthur about this.

"No, it's true," Fabian was insisting, apparently a bit more aware than Merlin had given him credit for. "I would be honored to earn such commitment from a servant of mine. Isn't your master honored to have you at his side?"

Merlin stared at Fabian for the length of a few bewildered blinks, and then he laughed uproariously.

Arthur chose that moment to seize his shoulder, mutter "Pardon me" to Fabian, and haul Merlin well off to the side—which he thought illustrated the point quite succinctly.

"What are you doing?" the prince demanded, glancing irritably back at the hunting party crashing its way through the trees.

"Investigating?" Merlin hazarded. "I think Fabian has a servant fantasy or some—"

Arthur made a noise like "Eughaugh" and grabbed Merlin's neckerchief, firm fingers clenching tight.

"We've already established that the only person who can love Fabian is himself," he cut in. "Forget Fabian. Have you 'investigated' anyone _else_?"

"Well," Merlin said, "Humbert's more interested in Genevieve than—"

"Everyone knows that," Arthur interrupted.

"No, they don't," Merlin protested, finally succeeding in pulling his accessory out of the prince's grip. "How'd you find out?"

"You just told me," Arthur answered, "loud enough for everyone to hear. Look, Merlin—" He grasped his servant's elbow and stopped them walking, letting the group get further away. "I don't trust Fabian. He's conniving."

Merlin sized the prince up, folding his arms. "You're just jealous because he's got better hair than you do."

"What?" Arthur demanded, disbelieving now. "He does _not_."

"He does," Merlin assured him airily, starting after the hunting party. "It's luxurious."

Arthur grabbed his arm again. "What matters," he managed, "is whether Vivian thinks so. Have you sounded him out? He seems more interested in _you_ than in her."

Merlin stopped again, struggling to free himself, and turned to face Arthur properly, the better to stare at him.

"He's just friendly," he decided. On further contemplation, he added, "And slightly delusional."

"No," Arthur gritted out, "_you're_ naïve. You wouldn't know attraction if it was handed to you in a labeled box." He poked Merlin, urgently, in the chest, and Merlin squirmed away. "You're like a child sometimes—"

"I am?" Merlin burst out. "You're the one bothering me when I'm trying to do what _you_ asked and have a conversation with—"

Something small and sharp hit him in the back of the head.

Merlin spun, rubbing at his skull, but he saw no source of projectiles among the trees. He looked up next and found only leaves made thin and bright by the sunshine, like tiny stained-glass windowpanes.

"Now what?" Arthur sighed.

"Just—" Merlin began, and then something pelted him between the shoulder-blades. "_Ow_!"

"Maybe that's attraction, trying make a point," Arthur remarked, snickering.

"It's not funny," Merlin told him, scowling at the unrevealing forest. "This sort of thing isn't random; it could be—"

A small stone appeared from nowhere to smack painfully against his cheek, and when Merlin's hand snapped up to touch the place, he drew it back bloody.

"It's Trickler," he said.

Arthur's eyes went wide just in time for him to watch Merlin jump—a rock had just targeted his arse, which really wasn't fair at all.

"Bastard!" Merlin yelled in the direction the cheap-shot had come.

"Don't provoke him, Merlin," Arthur reprimanded, waving him nearer. The prince had drawn his hunting knife. "We're not here to fight."

"Easy for you to say," Merlin muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Arthur asked, circling Merlin defensively.

"Nothing," Merlin said, and the forest snickered.

Arthur was immediately on the alert, brandishing the knife, trying to pinpoint the sound.

Trepidation rippled up and down Merlin's spine, like marbles rolling on his skin.

"We should go," he realized. "We should catch the others up; we don't want to be out here alone—"

"Well, why don't you talk about it more instead of doing it?" Arthur suggested, voice acidic with sarcasm. "Come _on_, then."

Merlin nodded, moving carefully back towards the path, trying not to shy too far from his protector.

Another pebble struck his forehead despite his efforts, and he staggered, wincing away from the new injury. Arthur steadied him, glancing fervently around them, and then swiped a new spot of blood from Merlin's face with the back of his hand.

"Leave him alone," Arthur called into the unresponsive woods. "You've made your point."

A larger stone struck Arthur's jaw.

"Hell," Merlin said, and then the barrage of pebbles began.

"_Hell_!" Arthur agreed, jamming his knife back into its sheath, seizing Merlin's arm, and starting off after the hunting party at a run, one hand shielding his head.

Merlin stumbled along with him, elbow crooked to cover his face as best he could, a hail of little stones bouncing off his back and shoulders, pitched with sufficient strength to breed a thousand bruises where they hit.

"Head down!" Arthur barked, palming the back of Merlin's skull and forcing it forward. A rock the size of an egg soared past, having barely missed its mark.

Stinging shards rained down on them, battering at Merlin's calves and arms and back, Arthur's grasp on his wrist guiding them to duck and weave through the forested land, trying to forge into thick vegetation for shelter.

"_Ow_!" Merlin yelped again when a good-sized stone hit him in the back of the knee, as if his balance wasn't bad enough to begin with. "Arthur—"

A glance confirmed that the prince wasn't faring much better. Their hasty journey into a tangled patch of undergrowth proved tantamount to an open invitation for thorns to stab them at every turn, and while many of the stones were deflected by the close trees, quite a number made it through.

Arthur curled a hand in the front of Merlin's tunic and jerked him down, so fast and so forcefully that Merlin's head spun. Three rocks whizzed through the place said head had been, and Merlin wobbled as Arthur let him up.

"How far ahead is the party?" the prince asked, craning his neck, then ducking, then stretching to look towards the path again.

"I don't know," Merlin managed faintly. "Just—oh, you've got to be _shitting_ me."

The rock rolling steadily towards them, crushing all the shrubs and saplings in its path, barely qualified as a rock at all—"boulder" would have been more descriptive, though "the worst possible thing at that particular moment" would have done it, too.

"Merlin," Arthur said slowly, his hand closing tightly around his servant's forearm, "_run_."

"Good idea," Merlin decided in a squeak, watching another bit of greenery disappear beneath the merciless monolith crunching steadily nearer.

"I know it is," Arthur said; "come _on_!"

They ran.

Like little meteors or tiny knives, waves of pebbles streaked after them, battering their backs, but they had a very literally larger concern by now. Its largeness was currently tearing through anything in its path, and they were next.

"Where did he find a _boulder_ in the _forest_?" Merlin wanted to know.

Arthur did not deign to answer, though the tone of his muttering seemed to indicate similar incredulity.

The terrain was surprisingly treacherous—tangled roots snared the toes of Merlin's boots, twigs whipping into his already beleaguered face, and fallen trees and bushes lurked too high to jump, leaving him to scramble over them clumsily instead. Merlin's balance betrayed him more than once, and Arthur gripped his arm, hauling him back to his feet; they ducked under branches and vines, spiky-edged leaves clinging to their clothes and hair, and always the boulder bore down on them, ever louder and closer as the moments passed one anxious heartbeat at a time.

Somehow, the sun was getting brighter, and just as Merlin started to wonder if that was some kind of positive omen, they broke out of the trees and onto the top of a considerable hill. His momentum threw him forward, and his heels followed his head's example, and then he was bouncing and slamming into the dirt, over and over, his shoulders catching gopher holes, grass prickling at his skin, the whole world spinning like a potter's wheel.

He was about halfway down—maybe?—before he realized he was screaming, and then a particularly vicious bump knocked the wind out of him, and then the sky twirled a few more times and let him go.

Dazed and reeling, Merlin lay where he'd landed, sprawled like a rag doll on his side, and watched a ladybug crawl slowly and fastidiously up a blade of grass. He had just enough presence of mind to be glad he hadn't rolled any further; he might have crushed the pretty little thing.

"_Merlin_!" Arthur was shouting, and by the way his voice was coming closer, he was probably running down the hill. "Merlin, get up! Are you—_Merlin_—"

A very strong hand gripped his shoulder and shook hard, and Merlin squinted up at the backlit face. Arthur's features were vaguely distinguishable in the shadow, his gold hair fired into a halo by the sunlight, and terror transitioned into annoyance when he saw that Merlin was alive.

"Is anything broken?" he demanded. "Get _up_, Merlin; we don't have time—"

Next thing, he was hauling Merlin up again, gesturing violently to the boulder just topping the rise, and then dragging them into the woods again.

Merlin was even clumsier when a lumpy hill had just beaten the living hell out of him, but there wasn't much to be done for that. Arthur kept dragging him, batting leaves and branches aside, shouldering through the ones that wouldn't yield, and Merlin kept stumbling after, struggling to focus his fragmented mind on the task of putting one foot in front of the other.

His eyes watered, and his bones ached, and he'd banged his right toes against a particularly cruel root, and Arthur was throwing an arm around his waist to yank him away from a scraggly shrub that had assaulted him, and then they staggered out onto a proper path, and the entire hunting party stared at them in disbelief.

Merlin collapsed onto the ground and gazed dumbly up at the sky. He couldn't hear the boulder, though Arthur was spinning on one heel, looking for it just in case. Trickler wanted them—or him, and Arthur was a bonus prize. Merlin wasn't sure why, but this incident had virtually convinced him of it, and he was nearly certain that the geological freak phenomena that had attacked them wouldn't follow them back to the group.

"What in the _hell_ happened to you?" Fabian asked, voice going a little high with surprise.

"There was—" Arthur said faintly. "We—well, it's—"

"We fell," Merlin announced, finding the strength to raise one arm and extend his index finger authoritatively. 'Falling,' he had found, could explain almost any injury that a person could obtain by strange or unfortunate means.

"You fell," Fabian repeated slowly.

"Into a briar patch," Merlin improvised, remembering the bleeding gash on his cheek.

"Into a gully," Arthur put in, panting. "A—gully full of briars. And it was difficult to climb out, and then we ran to get back to you so you wouldn't… worry."

"Well, that worked," Lord Slander-Not-Defamation remarked.

Lord Clearly-a-Bit-in-Love-with-Vivian gave him a dirty look.

Arthur brushed himself off, squared his shoulders, and looked over the company in a way that challenged anyone to contest his excuse, and then he offered Merlin a hand up.

Merlin took it.

—

  
Arthur paced, and Merlin looked gloomily at their list, where they'd crossed out half a dozen of the names.

"I don't think Vivian loves anyone," he said. "At least not anyone we've met. We should find the handsomest lord and just tell him to try kissing her."

"That's too subjective a judgment," Arthur responded, swiveling sharply and striding back towards the table, his hands behind his back. "Though I suppose your strategy in my case was effective. Maybe we could attempt to replicate that."

"But she can't see you," Merlin pointed out, sighing and pushing a finger at the pen, "or she won't pay attention to anyone else. And Olaf would _never_ forgive us for it anyway."

"If he found out," Arthur said.

"He would," Merlin replied. "Can you imagine any of those lords _not_ bragging about it to everyone they knew? It was different with you. Women have more discretion."

"You would know," Arthur commented, walking towards the wall again. "Since you're such a girl."

Merlin threw the ink bottle's cap at him.

Arthur dodged easily and then pointed an imperious finger at Merlin.

"That's treason," he said. "I'm going to have all of your crimes written up when we get home—if there's enough paper in the whole of Camelot."

"Crimes?" Merlin repeated, surreptitiously looking about for more ammunition. "There was a fly on you; I was just trying to scare it off."

"Throwing objects at the crown prince," Arthur noted, using his fingers to number the list. "Tripping the crown prince when he is running for his life."

"That was accidental," Merlin interjected.

"Failing to obey the crown prince's orders to run for your own measly little life in a timely fashion," Arthur went on, ignoring him. "Accusing the crown prince of snoring."

"I'll have Gaius settle it," Merlin promised.

"Inciting altercations while the crown prince is attempting to pursue espionage investigations." Arthur brought up his other hand. "General failure as a servant; denial of the crown prince's conclusions to that effect. Insolence verging on insurrection. Constant flirting on the job."

"Flirting with people _other_ than you, you mean," Merlin fired back.

Arthur paused.

Collette swept in through the open door, bearing a huge, heavy-looking bucket of steaming water. Merlin hastened to help her.

"Here, let me—"

Arthur clapped his hands together. "Is it bath-time, then?" he asked.

Merlin stopped midway through the process of repossessing Collette's burden to stare at Arthur.

"You've got a bit of dirt there," Arthur observed, motioning to the entirety of Merlin's form.

"I'm fine," Merlin said cagily.

"I'll go first," Arthur coaxed, and then Merlin knew he'd won—once the prince was soaking in the soapsuds, he'd be so pleased with himself that he'd forget all about Merlin's state.

"As you like," Merlin said. "Shall I help Collette get the bath-water for you, Sire?"

Arthur waved a hand negligently. "See to it."

"Prat," Merlin muttered the second he and Collette were in the hall, going for the next few buckets to fill the tub. "Can you believe him?"

"Your cheek's bleeding, Merlin."

"You'd think he's prince of the _world_."

"So is your forehead."

"Don't know what he's got against a little travel dust anyway."

"You have leaves in your hair."

He reached up and discovered that she was right.

"Long day?" he managed.

"Don't you think maybe Arthur's right?" Collette asked. "I mean, wouldn't washing up feel nice after all you've been through this afternoon?"

Merlin frowned. "He's just worried I'll get dirt in his bed."

There was a communicative pause, during the course of which Collette's eyebrows rose considerably.

"I mean," Merlin blurted out, "that—I was just—borrowing—his bed. Last night. Just the once. Because there were… extenuating circumstances. It's not like—you know."

Collette smiled faintly. "No," she assured him, "I know what you mean." They'd reached the pump, and she handed him a bucket. "What do you say we make a quick job of this?"

The girl, as Merlin was discovering, had a powerful talent for speaking things and then shaping reality to make them true—in record time, they'd filled the bathtub in his and Arthur's room, and the prince was standing over it, his arms folded, looking satisfied.

"Right," he said. "Lend a hand, Collette?"

Merlin had just enough time to wonder why Arthur didn't want his assistance as well before he realized that the two of them were closing in on _him_.

"Hey," he said faintly, backing away only to encounter the table, then a chair. "Let's not do anything rash."

Arthur cracked his knuckles.

"Believe me, Merlin," he said, blithely. "I've been planning this for a long time."

Merlin edged around the chair, glancing quickly towards the door. "Why don't we talk about this?" he suggested. "We're all reasonable, civilized people, aren't we?"

"Reasonable, civilized people take baths, Merlin," Arthur said.

Merlin shied away from him, but his foot tangled around the leg of another chair, and it tipped, and they tumbled together. He fell surprisingly lightly and didn't bang anything at a particularly painful angle, which must have been the floor's way of apologizing for what was in store.

"I thought you were going to go first!" Merlin protested hopelessly, scrabbling as Arthur dragged him towards the bathtub by his arm.

"You're filthy, Merlin," the prince remarked, as if that justified bath-related abuse.

"You're going to dislocate my shoulder!" Merlin cried.

"Careful," Collette put in, catching Merlin's other arm and attempting to pull him to his feet.

"Let me _go_!" Merlin wailed, wriggling to no avail.

"You _are_ pretty roughed-up," Collette told him, wheedlingly.

"It's part of my charm!" Merlin managed.

"Come on, Merlin," Arthur growled, hauling him towards the tub.

"Here, at least—"

Collette peeled Merlin's shirt off, and Merlin howled, and Arthur hissed at him to shut up and stop alerting everyone in the castle to their presence. Thrashing, Merlin ignored that suggestion and took to yelling various things about torture and indignity, the specifics of which were unimportant so long as the message got across.

The secondary message was _Let go, or odds are I'll accidentally break your nose_.

Despite all of his talented flailing, Collette somehow undid his neckerchief, too, and was pulling off his boots when Arthur threw both arms around Merlin's waist, hefted him, and then deposited him in the tub.

Merlin squeaked as hot water splashed everywhere, and then he huddled, pouting, wrapping his arms around himself and trying not to feel extremely exposed, which he was. He supposed he ought to count himself lucky that Collette hadn't managed to deprive him of his trousers—he had other pairs of those, but he only had a single sense of pride, and he couldn't replace that with a dry one as soon as he was alone.

Arthur stepped back and planted his hands on his hips, looking satisfied, and then glanced at Collette.

"I don't think anything short of a dozen knights with halberds has ever gotten Merlin into the bath before," he remarked.

This was clearly untrue; Gaius's eyebrow had done it a hundred times.

"Any chance I could entice you to work in Camelot?" the prince went on.

Collette smiled apologetically at Merlin and offered him the soap. She seemed so sincere that he took it, albeit grudgingly.

"I'm afraid I'm a bit too settled here," Collette told Arthur as she took off Merlin's second boot and set it aside with its brother.

"You should give Merlin tips," the prince decided.

"I'm already perfect," Merlin cut in, reluctantly rubbing at his cheek with some soap. It stung in the cuts, and he drew his hand away slightly muddy. Maybe his tormentors had a point.

A little bit of a point. An incidental point. A point he could have gone the rest of his life without conceding, if he'd wanted to.

Arthur snorted. "Perfectly incompetent," he said. "You're not even—Merlin, that's not how you use soap."

"Go away!" Merlin protested, attempting to writhe out of reach.

His efforts proved futile, however, as the prince pushed up his sleeves, tossed his silver ring to Collette, and pried the soap out of Merlin's hands. Merlin wriggled, but to no avail; he was squarely trapped in the tub, unable to get leverage with his legs still over the side, no matter how much as he swung his arms and hollered his disapproval.

Naturally, Arthur disregarded his objections, lathered up the soap, and started spreading suds all over Merlin's back.

"Don't touch me!" Merlin tried to duck away, which only encouraged Arthur to start smearing the soap on his head, fingernails scraping at his scalp and tugging through his wet and quickly-tangling hair. Merlin swatted at Arthur's hands, but fruitlessly; the prince's grip was sure, and his slightly rough palms were steady, and he was relentless all around. Merlin supposed he should have expected that.

Unsurprisingly, the prince tried to perch on the edge of the tub for a better angle, curling his fingers in Merlin's hair and tilting his servant's head towards him. All the while Merlin railed at the top of his voice, shoving uselessly against Arthur's chest—wet handprints marked his lack of progress. Hopeless, by the looks of it, Merlin did the only thing he could think of: he splashed Arthur in the face.

Arthur blinked, wrinkled his nose, and blinked again, his bangs dripping in his eyes.

Then he dipped a hand into the bath and batted water back at Merlin, who flinched.

The splash war escalated so fast that Collette didn't have time to run before becoming collateral damage. Her squeal of surprise segued into uncontrollable giggling, and Arthur slipped and half-fell into the tub, where he started rubbing soap more vigorously against Merlin's face and shoulders and chest, all slick hands and incredulous laughter. Merlin was doing his best to churn up a splash _tempest_ in the hopes of deterring the hygiene-minded prince, whose hands were much too warm and far too invasive: the soap was burning in the little gashes, and Merlin's cheeks were burning as well, entirely of their own accord.

That was about when Harper skidded into the room, his sword bare, his shirt unlaced, and his hair in disarray.

He stared, and then he grinned, lowering the blade.

"_Oh_," he said, in a tone of significance that Merlin didn't like. "It sounded like someone was getting killed in here."

Merlin realized that Arthur was most of the way into the tub with him, both of them soaked through and decorated with patches of soapsuds, with Collette standing by. He went a bit redder still, because this definitely wasn't what it looked like.

Merlin didn't even want to think about what it looked like.

To tell the truth, he had no idea what that could be.

Ian was peeking around the doorframe, and his hair was ruffled, too.

"Told you," he remarked to Harper idly.

"You have a talent for distinguishing screams of agony from screams of cleanliness," Harper noted in reply.

Arthur cleared his throat, cleared his throat again, clambered hastily out of the tub, and threw the soap to Merlin, who missed catching it and promptly lost it in the water.

The prince was standing very tall, apparently mustering as much dignity as could be salvaged from the situation. Merlin attempted not to get distracted by how adorable Arthur looked all wet and flustered.

"I appreciate your checking in on us," the prince managed to announce. "As I'm sure you were…" He glanced at Ian by the door and went pink despite a third throat-clearing. "…busy…"

Harper paused, looking between the two of them concernedly. "What happened?" he asked, gesturing to their various small injuries. "Are you all right?"

"Trickler happened," Merlin said, making a strong effort to forget that he was bent double in a bathtub, with bare feet and soap in his hair. He supposed it wasn't much worse than the stocks, and he'd had lots of good conversations there. "We were hunting with Fabian in the forest—"

Harper snorted and tried to cover with a cough. Ian rolled his eyes.

"And we got separated from the group," Merlin went on slowly, "and Trickler started throwing rocks at us. What's so funny?" He wanted to add, _Other than my current position_, but he was worried that the answer would be _No, that's all_.

"Fabian," Harper responded instead. "That man is my favorite court menace, bar none. That aside, why the hell would Trickler want to follow you around in the forest?"

"Revenge?" Merlin hazarded. It was the closest thing to a motive that he'd been able to generate from the conversation he and the other sorcerer had had before.

"But Vivian's such an easy target," Collette pointed out. "Speaking of which, I had better go check on her if you've got things under control here."

Arthur gave her a _Your presence will not mitigate my suffering, so you're free to go_ look, and Collette bobbed a curtsey and slipped out the door, smiling at Ian as she went.

"She's right," Harper decided. "Why the pair of you?"

"I guess because we stopped him before," Merlin said, shifting a little and trying to position his knees in front of his chest. "Maybe he figures it's only fair to ruin our plan the same way."

"It's you he wants," Arthur said.

Merlin stared at him. The prince's face revealed nothing, his expression impressively neutral as he looked to Harper again.

"It's Merlin he caught in the halls," Arthur recollected, "and he didn't bother me today until I moved to Merlin's defense."

That made more sense than Merlin wanted to think about. His experiences had certainly taught him that sorcerers tended to be territorial, and Merlin, who understood the power of magic best, was Trickler's greatest threat. It might also explain the way Trickler had gotten into his head—was it all a matter of trying to drive him away?

Harper propped his sword against his shoulder, settling his other hand on his hip. "All the more important that we find him, then."

Arthur pushed damp hair off of his forehead. "We could always lock Merlin in a closet."

It was Ian's turn to acquire a sudden cough.

"Try it," Merlin muttered. He looked to Harper, hoping the other man would understand him instinctively. "Just look after people like you've been doing; I can take care of myself."

"You can't even wash properly," Arthur butted in, settling a hand at the side of Merlin's head and pushing him sideways for emphasis. He directed his next words at Harper. "I'll keep an eye on him."

The captain smiled. "Perfect. I'll start a search of the castle in the meantime—if he's getting this bold, we should probably be concerned."

Merlin was still sitting in the cooling bathtub, evidencing the epitome of ridiculousness. He badly wanted this conversation to be over.

He also wanted Arthur to go jump off of a battlement, but he was trying to focus on realistic goals.

Harper seemed to have a sixth sense for these things—he offered them a quick bow, promised his best effort, and strode out, catching Ian's arm en route. The captain's servant had the presence of mind to shut the door after them, and Merlin could have sworn the man winked.

Merlin was ready to retire from servitude, sorcery, and excitement and take up farming in Ealdor now.

Arthur drew a deep breath, released it as a sigh, and glanced down at him again.

"Somehow," he observed, "you still manage to be coated in dirt. When I said there was something special about you, Merlin, I didn't know it was that you were a mud magnet."

"You've had lots of time to figure that out," Merlin responded, halfheartedly scooping up some floating suds and brushing them across his forehead. "Would you go look at the list? I forget who's still on it."

"No, Merlin," Arthur said calmly, crossing his arms. "I'm going to stand here and monitor you until I'm satisfied with how clean you are."

Merlin felt a deep and rather convincing urge to leap from the tub and strangle the life out of Arthur Pendragon. He was prevented mostly by his angle, which was still awful—he had no leverage for leaping and throttling, tragic as that detail was.

Swallowing and making a distinct effort to stay calm, Merlin resolved to show the prince how good people acted in bad situations: for instance, remaining reasonable, or not subjecting servants to various unnecessary humiliations. He made an elaborate show of washing both arms and as much as he could reach of his back, and he even went so far as to wet his face, wrinkling his nose at the way the cuts still sizzled with momentary pain. A short ways into this display, Arthur changed his mind about looming ominously over the bathtub and retreated to the bed, where he sat to watch.

Without waiting for a confirmation, having vaguely scrubbed at all the obvious centers of dirt, Merlin assigned himself instead to the task of getting out of the bathtub again. After some careful shifting, he braced both hands on the edge, fought for traction on the floor, and, slightly miraculously, pried himself from his erstwhile prison, bursting free and stumbling a bit as he regained his balance on his legs.

Arthur treated him to some slow and deliberate applause.

"I'd like to see you do that," Merlin informed his torturer, making his soggy-trousered way over to his pack to sort through its contents.

"I would do it with much more grace," Arthur said, "given that I'm not made of sticks and a little skin. I'm not letting you on the bed until you're dry, you know."

Merlin frowned, retrieved a pair of new trousers, shook the worst of the wrinkles out, and turned away from Arthur to make the switch.

Instants before she would have seen far more of him than either of them would have liked, Collette burst in again, looking one part dazed and two parts terrified.

"It's the jester," she said, pushing the door shut and leaning against it, wringing her hands so intently that Merlin feared for her knuckles. "He was in Vivian's room—the door was ajar, and I heard voices, which never happens; she never has men with her, as you'd probably guess. So I looked, and he was telling her about how Arthur Pendragon had come to see her despite her father's wishes, because nothing could keep them apart, and he was in the castle waiting for her, but she had to find him, because true love would make it all turn out right—" Collette sucked in a long breath and let it out shakily, clenching her fists and then holding them against her mouth. "And she was _enraptured_," she went on, softer and slower now. "She believed him. She believed all of that. She knows you're here."

Merlin and Arthur exchanged glances, and the prince transitioned seamlessly into a commander at war.

"Merlin," he said, sliding smoothly off the bed, "you and Collette go back to Vivian's room and make sure she's safe. I'll find Harper and alert him."

Merlin shouldered a dry shirt on, lamenting the fact that wet, heavy trousers were currently the least of his problems.

"Oh," Collette said, strangely collected. "She's safe. I chased him off."

Merlin and Arthur glanced at each other again, and then they stared at Collette in unison.

"Well," Collette amended, coloring a little, "I sort of—burst in and… shouted at him that he'd better not harm a hair on her head, you know, and he… vanished."

"He could have killed you," Merlin pointed out.

Avoiding their eyes, Collette shrugged.

"Well," Arthur said slowly, still incredulous, "there's a chance he'll have come back, if he has more to say."

"And what are we supposed to do if he has?" Merlin managed.

Arthur blinked at him as if this was a test question he was supposed to know the answer to. "You hold him off," he answered simply.

"What _with_?" Merlin demanded, flinging his empty arms out wide.

Arthur studied him for just a moment.

"Figure something out," he instructed, oh-so helpfully, as he buckled his sword belt. "Act as bait if you have to."

Merlin was starting to think that Arthur was trying to kill him again.

—

  
Vivian's room was none too close to theirs—the princess lived high up and well away from the castle's major passages. The seclusion, Merlin thought, was a good step towards security, though a half-dozen armored guards by the door certainly wouldn't have hurt.

The door in question was closed now, and they pressed their ears to it, straining for sound.

Merlin couldn't hear much more than the faintest rustling—and then a delighted sigh. After a moment of silence, he looked to Collette, who shrugged, waved at him to stay out of sight, and knocked briskly on the door.

"Who _is_ it?" Vivian sang.

"It's me again," Collette replied, her fingers already curled around the door handle.

"Oh," Vivian said. "Come in!"

With one last glance at Merlin, Collette obeyed, leaving the heavy door open just a crack.

"Collette!" Vivian was crying breathlessly—and had she just clapped her hands? "Isn't it wonderful?"

"Ah," Collette asked, sounding magnificently unexcited. "What are you referring to? Please, Milady, don't keep me in suspense."

"You didn't hear? I suppose it's a secret," Vivian whispered. There was a pause, and Merlin crept closer, aligning his eye with the gap Collette had left in the door. He could just make out Vivian bouncing around in a pale gown, visible at intervals around Collette, who had her hands folded behind her back so tightly that her knuckles were bright white. Then Vivian giggled loudly. "All right!" she said. "It's Prince Arthur! He's _here_, because he loves me enough to risk my father's wrath! Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever heard?"

Merlin was guessing that the word Collette would have chosen was "suicidal" or "horrific," but Vivian evidently wasn't in the mood for semantics.

"How—lovely," Collette managed, subjected to the full force of Vivian's radiant grin. "He—I've heard that he—is a very honorable young man. Honorable enough that you should be quite careful in pursuing him, Milady, lest your father catch him, which would dishonor him a great deal."

"You're right," Vivian murmured unhappily, and Merlin let himself relax against the door a little. "We'll have to be very cautious liaising. I'll have to send messages. You need to find him, Collette; bring him—this!" With a flourish, she produced a red silk handkerchief and waved it around. "Bring him this!"

Collette shifted uncomfortably. "Milady, I don't know where he is."

Merlin craned his neck, trying to see Vivian's face past Collette's shoulder. He caught a glimpse of an exquisite pout.

"Well, you know the castle better than anyone, Collette. And you've done me a thousand favors before. What do you think I should do? Are you any good at poetry?" Collette mumbled something noncommittal, and Vivian tapped her foot. "What rhymes with 'Arthur'?"

Merlin leaned a little closer, lost his balance, fell into the door, outweighed it, and tumbled into the room.

Sadly—and tellingly—his first thought was that Arthur would be justified in slaughtering him now, and the question of whether he'd cracked his skull sulked into his consciousness well after he'd indexed Arthur's options for murder weapons.

Tentatively, he opened his eyes, which he'd automatically squeezed shut on impact. Vivian and Collette were staring down at him, the former bewilderedly, the latter in guilt-stricken concern.

"Don't I know you?" Vivian asked.

"Um," Merlin managed, fumbling for words, "no. No, I don't think you do. You see, I'm… new… here, and I'd… certainly remember a lady as lovely as yourself." That wasn't a bad start. Maybe he could distract her with the compliment. "I was just exploring the halls a bit and happened to… trip."

Collette did not look particularly reassured by Merlin's pathetic excuse for an excuse, but it was better than nothing. Vivian was still watching him suspiciously, and Merlin recalled that he was lying on the floor, so he scrambled to his feet instead. At least this way, he could run if things got too—

Vivian's bright eyes lit up. "I _do_ know you! You're Arthur's servant! He's sent you to find me!"

Merlin bolted.

There was one single, solitary thing to be grateful for: he was getting a much better sense of the mazy halls, and he could now navigate them without expecting to get lost and die. Well, that, or the world had decided he'd had enough downright rotten luck today and was cutting him a break.

Either way, he didn't stop until he'd made it back to his and Arthur's room and slammed the door behind him, panting heavily, gingerly shifting as he realized how chafed his legs were from running in the wet trousers.

Arthur, sitting at the table spinning his hunting knife, abruptly looked up.

"How's Vivian?" he asked.

"Fantastic," Merlin answered breathlessly. "All the more fantastic for thinking you're going to woo her at the first opportunity. She's got a nice token for you already. And she recognized me."

Merlin left out the part about that being entirely his own fault.

Arthur ran a hand through his hair and frowned. "The way our fortunes are, I'm not surprised. Harper knows the situation, at least. I trust there's no sign of Trickler?"

Merlin shook his head and sat next to Arthur, folding his arms on the table.

The moment he touched the chair, he remembered that his trousers were still soaked and jumped up again.

"Don't let anyone walk in," Merlin mumbled to Arthur as he went to fetch dry clothes. "Your bath water's going to be frigid."

"There are more important things to do than take a bath right now," Arthur replied. At Merlin's disbelieving stare, he crossed his legs, scowling. "What?"

Merlin shrugged, turned away, took a deep breath, and dropped his wet trousers, stepping out of them. "Just never known you to pass up a bath before."

"Hang those up somewhere," Arthur ordered of the abandoned article crumpled on the floor. Merlin's face went very hot at the thought that Arthur was watching him as he nudged the pile of heavy fabric aside with his foot and pulled on the new pair. "Come on," Arthur scolded. "Don't just leave it there."

Resisting the urge to glance back at him, Merlin smoothed his warm new clothes, picked up the lump of wet cloth, and draped it over the back of one of the chairs.

"I guess we can run you a bath tomorrow," he told the tabletop.

"Tomorrow," Arthur said, "we're going to line up the lords, swear them all to secrecy, and give each one a moment with Vivian. We can't afford to have her compromised in such a dangerous situation."

"You think having her true love announced to her is going to make her _safer_?" Merlin asked, moving across the room to consider the bathtub without having looked at Arthur yet. "It seems to me that love makes people more vulnerable."

He heard Arthur drumming his fingers on the table. "I don't see what you mean."

"When you realize you're in love with someone," Merlin said, pushing up his sleeve and fishing the bar of soap out of the—yup—chilly water, "you're always conscious of them. And the best way for somebody to hurt you is to hurt them. If someone causes _you_ pain, you can convince yourself you're strong enough to take it, but when it's someone you love more than yourself, seeing them in pain is unbearable. If you give her a true love, you give her another weakness, too."

"I thought you would support loving everyone," Arthur said slowly.

"I do," Merlin said, balancing the soap on the edge of the tub. "That's why—well, I'm easy to hurt, aren't I?"

"That's why you always run to the rescue?" Arthur supplied. "Not because of duty or courage or honor, but because you love too much?"

Merlin smiled a little. "I never really thought about it like that. I just try to do what seems right."

He heard the chair creak, and he chanced a glance at Arthur, who stood and stretched.

"Let's hope it sees us through tomorrow," the prince remarked. "I imagine we'll need a whole lot of luck to go with your righteousness."

Merlin got up, folded his hands a little, and managed a smile.

"While you're up," Arthur said, "will you take out the bath-water?"

For a moment, Merlin considered contriving to make Arthur drink it, and then he remembered how unpleasant his own experience with bath-tea had been and decided to spare the prince that kind of misfortune.

Hauling the extraordinarily heavy tub out of the room, he mused that he definitely was too loving for his own good.

—

  
Merlin paused pointedly as Arthur began preparing for bed. He'd procrastinated as much as possible tidying up the remnants of the dinner Ian had brought them, but now his options were hopping onto the mattress beside the prince or laying out his old bedding on the floor, and he wasn't sure which choice Arthur intended him to make.

For someone who alternated between straightforward to a fault and blockheadedly stubborn, Arthur could be impressively unpredictable.

Apparently, Merlin himself was somewhat less surprising: Arthur, sitting up against the headboard and consulting their list, gave him a stern look and pointed to the open side of the bed.

That was unequivocal enough. Merlin sidled over and climbed in, trying not to rock the mattress too much. Maneuvering to look around Arthur's arm, he peeked at the paper, spotted as it was with inkblots (his), straight, bold strikeouts (Arthur's), and letters with delicate curves and flourishes (courtesy of Collette).

"Why is Fabian still on our list?" Arthur asked.

Merlin chewed on his lip. "Well, we can't exactly cross him off. All the other ladies love him; Vivian could, too."

"I should hope Vivian would exhibit better judgment than to dedicate herself to a scheming fop with shiny hair," Arthur muttered.

Merlin grinned. "Don't forget that she didn't fall in love with you until the spell forced her to. That sounds like terrible judgment to me."

Arthur glanced at him, eyebrows rising, and Merlin went pink for what had to be the hundredth time that night as he realized what he'd said.

"Merlin," the prince responded slowly, setting the list in his lap, "why do I always find myself wondering how much you say on purpose and how much just comes out to spite you?"

"I think it's about half and half," Merlin managed, distracted by Arthur's eyes, which were dark and bright at once, royal blue but so intent.

Their corners crinkled as Arthur smirked. "You use that to your advantage, don't you? You're a whole lot smarter than you look."

Merlin smiled a little, sheepishly, and tugged at the blankets. "Only to help people," he said. "Well, people and prats."

"The two main demographics in Camelot," Arthur noted mildly. He was quiet for a moment, and Merlin picked at a few loose threads in the sheet until the prince's expectant gaze finally grew too heavy, and he had to look up.

Arthur's eyes were calculating but strangely warm.

"Merlin," he said, "answer something honestly for me."

Merlin heard his heart thumping in his ears. He wanted to tell the truth—he always _wanted_ to—but there were so many things he just couldn't say. The more they traveled, the more they learned, the more Merlin saw of the world and its people, the less of himself it was safe to show. It was only safe to exist in the capacity of Arthur's servant, of the bumbling, naïve numbskull trotting at his heels; the rest he had to hide. The rest he had to bury, and honesty about all those buried things—the traits, the thoughts, the theories, the bits and pieces of knowledge that sparked in him, poised to ignite the world around them if he let them free… honesty about those things was out of the question.

"Of course," he said. "Always."

Arthur looked at him, looked away, and then at Merlin again. Then he placed their list on the nightstand and shifted to sit facing his servant, one knee up under the blanket, his arm draped over it.

"In the tent," he said, "you kissed me last, didn't you?"

Merlin stared. Of all the things…

"I—" he stammered. "It was an accident—"

Arthur's head was tilted just slightly, just enough that his bangs were slowly sliding across his forehead.

"I don't think it was," he said.

Merlin's hands were shaking, which was odd, because they were folded in his lap, and he swore he could hear his pulse beating in his temple, a distant rushing like the sound of the sea. Why hadn't he realized before how close they were?

"But you can't…" Merlin's voice protested. "But… the Dragon said 'her'; I remember—"

Arthur blinked, and the change in his expression gutted the moment instantaneously.

"The _Dragon_?" he repeated flatly. "What Dragon?"

The Dragon Merlin was going to feed himself to when they got home, of course.

"The one your father's got chained under the castle," he said, leaning forward now. "Arthur—"

"I don't _believe_ this," the prince muttered fiercely, pushing his hair back.

Merlin watched him uncertainly. "Aren't you going to kiss me?" he mumbled.

"A _Dragon_, Merlin?" Arthur was raving.

"You have a one-track mind, Arthur."

"I think this track is suitable given that no one told me there's a _Dragon_ under the bloody _castle_!"

"Well," Merlin took up, folding his arms, "I don't think very many people know about him. Except me. And Gaius. And your father, obviously. And I guess any knights who've been around since he was caught, since they were probably involved. And I suppose lots of people probably noticed when they dragged a huge dragon through the town on a chain, so anybody old enough to remember that. And any servants or guards who've gotten lost might have stumbled on him. And—"

Arthur waved at him incoherently with one hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with the other.

"It's not so bad," Merlin ventured cautiously. "I mean, he's told me to save you at least two dozen times, so he's clearly on your side."

Arthur flopped down in the bed and held his pillow over his head.

Sighing inwardly, Merlin abandoned his last hopes for that conversation and settled down under the bedcovers, facing away from the prince. He blew out the candles and watched wisps of smoke twirl upward in the dark, and then he shut his eyes.

He had figured that the disappointment and frustration alone would keep him up well into the night, but it had been such a grotesquely long day of boulder evasion and bath fights that he was actually drowsing in minutes. Just as he started to waver into relatively pleasant dreams, Arthur spoke.

"What about Guinevere?"

His sleepiness, as Merlin discovered too late, had made mincemeat of his usual caution when choosing words.

"What about her?" he asked. "She's wonderful. She used to be my friend until all this business with you started up, and she stopped having time to talk to me. She's a lovely girl, though. You should marry her and have adorable babies."

"_No_, Merlin," Arthur said, shoving him none too gently. The prince's hand wasn't very steady, and neither was his voice. "I mean… if it's—you, then what am I supposed to say to her?"

"If what's me?" Merlin muttered.

"In the tent," Arthur said again. "You kissed me last."

Merlin found himself quite awake, but he couldn't move.

"And that's what broke the spell," Arthur said. "I've been thinking about it a lot. I mean, obviously you're the single worst servant the world has ever seen, but you're also… kind of brilliant."

Merlin was not hearing this. He was dreaming.

Wait, yes—of course he was. That made sense. He settled, his tense muscles loosening a little, because if he was dreaming, Arthur could say anything he wanted, and it would have disappeared in the morning, obliterated by the sun.

"And… I think it'd be overestimating even your compassion to say you like me _all_ of the time, but you put up with me anyway—when I'm angry and stubborn and unreasonable and never thank you for a thing. You're like my conscience. And… I need you. I rely on you more than anything, and even when you're incompetent, you're _trying_. No one else treats me like that. No one else hears me out even when I'm wrong. No one else comes to save me from my own arrogance even when they've warned me against it. It has to be you."

"I thought you hated destiny," Merlin said, curling smaller, flinching when Arthur's fingertips grazed his shoulder-blade.

"What's to hate about doing the same stupid things we've been doing all along?" the prince inquired.

Merlin managed a little smile. "That's sort of how I feel about it."

There was contemplative silence for a moment, and then, inevitably, Arthur shattered it and stomped on the remains.

"You're a terrible kisser, you know."

Merlin rolled over indignantly at that. "I wasn't even trying to kiss you!" he objected. "I _fell_!"

Arthur smirked lazily. "You've done a great deal of highly suspect falling recently."

Merlin scowled. "There is _nothing_ 'suspect' about me being clumsy; you've been complaining about it since day o—"

Arthur kissed him.

This was much more like what he'd envisioned in small, secret moments, in half-dreams stained and sinking into guilt. This was Arthur's thumb grazing his cheekbone, Arthur's fingertips at his ear, Arthur's mouth warm and taunting and responsive—this was Arthur's breath on his lips and Arthur's nose against his cheek and the tickle of Arthur's hair. This was a soft, dark moment of nothing but blind sensitivity, a muddle of unhesitating love and some dizzying fear of messing up just when he had everything.

Arthur's eyes were bright and curious in the moonlight when they drew apart, and Merlin swallowed, daring to hope.

"It's official," the prince said. "You are an _abysmal_ kisser, Merlin."

"You're no good either," Merlin replied, only a little breathlessly. "I feel terrible for putting all those ladies through that."

"Treason," Arthur said, belied by his grin. "Now go to sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a disaster, if precedent is anything to go by."

"Is optimism treachery, too?" Merlin asked.

"The worst of all," Arthur replied, reaching out to push Merlin's hair off his forehead. "Sleep, will you?"

"I was about to," Merlin told him, leaning into his hand, "but then you started talking."

Arthur thumbed at Merlin's jaw, rolled his eyes, and then rolled over. "Goodnight, Merlin."

Merlin bit his lip, settling with the pillow, admiring the way the prince's hair shone palely in the dim light.

"Goodnight, Arthur," he responded. "Sweet dreams."

—

  
"Up, Merlin."

Merlin mumbled in protest as the prince's warm hand disheveled his hair, and then he batted at the invasive appendage. None too surprisingly, the prince easily avoided his somnolent attempts at defense and took to tickling him instead.

Wailing, Merlin wriggled, rolled away, and ended up on the floor, though practice ensured that he caught himself before his skull hit the stone.

Upon becoming conscious, Merlin's first thought was to wonder whether last night had been an elaborate hallucination—or an even more elaborate misunderstanding. What if he'd imagined it all? Or Arthur had eaten something that had made his brain go funny, and he hadn't actually meant any part of it? Random chance had never been Merlin's friend. It was more of a mutual, instinctive, undying hatred thing.

Except that Arthur was standing over him, like usual, but there was something different in his smile.

"You're going to crack your head open one of these days," he remarked, "and then we'll finally be able to figure out what's wrong with you."

Maybe love—maybe _true_ love—was different; maybe it wasn't something you worked at, thought about, justified. Maybe true love was something that happened, not something you did.

"First you'd have to clean up the mess," Merlin noted. He took the firm hand that Arthur offered and pulled himself to his feet. "That sounds fair."

Arthur shoved his shoulder, a fraction more gently than was his tendency. "Today, we might just get to try. Come on, Collette brought breakfast a quarter of an hour ago."


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lunacy leaves our lads in a land of... l.. ove?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this giant monster! ♥

Arthur's gaze panned slowly around the room, and Merlin saw it again—the spark of kingship, of promise, of so much more. There was an oath in Arthur's eyes when they shone like that, when they met all of the other eyes before them with radiant calm and quiet implacability. Watching him in moments like this—Merlin had seen it in Ealdor and on a scattering of occasions since—was like glimpsing the future and finding it secure.

They were in the hall they'd spied on before, during the lady's birthday party, though this time its occupants were of a rather different sort. A series of missives, pleas, coaxings, and insistent knockings at closed doors had finally drawn all of the lords into one place, where now they lounged—surly, suspicious, intrigued, and confused—wherever one looked. In the set of his shoulders and those cool blue eyes, Arthur commanded them all.

Merlin felt a faint rush of pride at that. He belonged to Arthur Pendragon, to the prince whom time would make a king, and there was a reciprocity to it. He owned his part of the legend he was helping to build.

"All of you," Arthur said, and the low current of mumbling and chattering faltered and died, "are loyal subjects, are you not? If any man here doesn't want what's best for Olaf and for Valden and isn't willing to go to some lengths for his kingdom, he should leave now, with the benefit of the doubt."

No one moved, and Merlin recognized a small, brief hint of a smile crossing Arthur's face, the kind of clue anyone less accustomed would miss.

"Excellent," the prince remarked. "Then I would like you all to swear a solemn oath, on your loyalty and your lives, that none of today's events leave this room. Hands on your swords, if you have them. Swear."

There were murmurs from every side, some of them merely curious, some more committed, and Merlin ensured that he'd seen each mouth in the room form words before he nodded to Arthur at the congregation's head.

"What about you, friend?" Fabian asked cheerfully when the room had quieted. Merlin noticed that Captain Harper, loitering in the corner, grinned at that, and Ian rolled his eyes.

Fortunately, Arthur also smiled. "I swear on my life and my allegiance that these proceedings will not be spoken of," he intoned.

"So what do you want?" Merlin's big, burly knight from the hunting trip inquired.

Arthur faced him, completely unperturbed. Merlin resisted the urge to laugh a little at how deceptively blank his expression was as the prince answered, "You all must kiss the Lady Vivian."

There was silence for a moment, and then the room exploded into screaming laughter and exclamations of disbelief.

Arthur waited, extraordinarily patiently, until the worst was over.

"She's been enchanted," he announced in the voice he used for shredding courage like cheap parchment. "The only way to break the spell is with the kiss of her true love, therefore all of you will contribute, and the Lady Vivian will return to normal."

"Well, that's no fun," someone muttered, but Merlin couldn't track the voice.

"I didn't say it was going to be fun," Arthur responded. "I said it was what's best for Valden. Collette, if you would please bring the princess?"

Collette curtsied quickly and darted out, and Arthur folded his arms, considering the crowd of now mostly-delighted noblemen.

"Hopefully," he said, "it is unnecessary for me to emphasize that you get one kiss each, and you had better not attempt anything—offensive."

"Define 'offensive,'" Lord Slander remarked.

Merlin, who was watching the very subtle shifts in the muscles of Arthur's shoulders, would have liked to follow it to the limits of its denotation with the prince.

Arthur's shoulders shifted quite pleasantly as he turned to give Slander a look that would have melted iron.

"That will fall to my discretion," he said.

"What if it isn't anyone?" the first of Merlin's hunting trip acquaintances, Lord Valden Had an Incredible Proportion of People with Nice Hair, inquired.

"It has to be someone," Arthur responded, "or I can't imagine the spell would take effect in the first place. I believe it's the case with most magic that there has to be a tradeoff."

Merlin hadn't thought about it quite like that. Arthur could actually be rather intelligent when he wasn't inviting people to hit him in the head with sharp objects.

There was some unconvinced grumbling in the crowd, and then there was a bit of commotion in the hall, followed by a familiar voice raised in warning.

"You might not want to—"

The doors burst open, and Vivian exploded into the room, dressed in a very fetching powder blue.

"_Arthur_!" she screamed so loudly that Merlin clapped his hands over his ears.

"Vivian," Arthur returned through a grimace.

There wasn't time to interject before Vivian, flowing skirts and all, had barreled full-speed across the room, noblemen parting instinctively to let her pass, and flung herself at the prince. Her arms closed like a vise around his chest, and he staggered backwards at the impact, cringing. Merlin suddenly remembered that Arthur had broken his rib mere days before.

"Arthur, my love!" Vivian was crooning, already tucking her red silk handkerchief rather less than subtly down the front of Arthur's tunic. "You _have_ come! Shall we elope? Let's elope. I want to elope; sweep me off my feet, and let's go!"

If anyone swept Vivian off her feet, it would be Merlin, and it would be because her took her out at the ankles with a broom handle to get her away from Arthur.

For now, at least, the prince appeared to be coping admirably. He had managed to pry Vivian's arms from around his torso and was currently holding onto her hands, keeping them a safe distance from his clothing, and wincing only a little.

"That sounds delightful," Arthur said, in the tone of one discussing plagues of locust, "but first I'm afraid there's something you must do for me."

Vivian's eyes went very wide, and she nodded until Merlin hoped—er, worried—her head would topple off.

"You need to prove that you love me," Arthur went on bravely. "And the best way to do that is to let every man in this room kiss you once, and then see if you still prefer me above all of them."

Vivian stared.

"But of course I prefer you, Snugglecakes," she protested.

Ian went into a small coughing fit. Merlin would have joined him if he himself hadn't been on the verge of death by means of utter disbelief.

"I don't need to prove it," Vivian said, her voice rising both in volume and in pitch, her full lips protruding into a pout. "I _know_ I love you, Arthur, more than anything in my life. We should elope right _now_. Someone pack my bags."

Collette looked like she would jump out a window first—which would probably be preferable to waiting around and finding out how Olaf would treat an accessory to his daughter's elopement.

Vivian's pretty features were set into an expression that, enchantment aside, showed a young woman who had been spoiled rotten all her life, a girl who honestly believed her wish was law because no one had ever told her different. The Lady Vivian had never learned to compromise, so she had never had to learn how to back down. Something had to be done.

More specifically, Merlin had to do something. That was essentially protocol by now.

"It's a formality," he blurted out as Vivian started pulling on a horrified Arthur's hands. "In Camelot. Arthur's just trying to make sure you've followed the rules, that's all."

The prince shot Merlin one of his rare grateful looks.

"That's exactly right," he said. "I'm afraid even I have to uphold the traditions of Camelot."

Vivian frowned delicately. "But if we're eloping anyway, who's going to enforce—"

"Do it for me?" Arthur broke in, pleading.

"And for them," Merlin muttered of the slavering crowd who watched the proceedings in eager silence.

Vivian gazed deeply into Arthur's eyes for an extremely long moment—not that Merlin didn't sympathize with that—and the prince attempted at a winsome smile.

"Oh," Vivian scoffed, cracking a coquettish grin, "all _right_."

The cheer that went up was deafening.

Naturally, the men, a collection of finely-bred nobility and well-trained soldiers, were completely incapable of organizing. Only after a great deal of shouting from Arthur and Captain Harper had they straggled into anything even remotely resembling a line, and even then, pushing, cutting, whining, and threatening ran rampant. Most of the lords Merlin was acquainted with ended up at the back of the vaguely linear cluster, which made it all the easier to watch closely as Vivian proceeded towards them, increasingly well-kissed but none too contented, shooting looks at Arthur as she went.

The prince, who had retreated to join Merlin by the wall, did his best to nod and clench his teeth in an encouraging way every time she glanced at him for consultation.

"This is a disaster," Arthur said blankly when Vivian had made it through half of the assembled company, and certain men among them were sneaking back into the line for another go.

"Might not be," Merlin replied. "We had to go through everyone before we disenchanted you, and Fabian and his shiny hair are at the end."

Arthur snorted, folding his arms. "If it's Fabian, I'm going to throw myself out a window." At Merlin's skeptical glance, he took offense. "I am. Watch me. Pick a window."

"I like this one," Merlin decided, gesturing to the paneless number at their backs. "And it's not too far above the ground, so if you land on your head, it might fix you."

"There's nothing to be fixed," Arthur muttered, and Merlin disagreed but didn't mind.

Vivian, as it was turning out, was strikingly efficient at this sort of thing. Even enchanted, a condition that had left Arthur virtually intoxicated, she remembered whom she'd kissed and whom she hadn't and sent those seeking second helpings summarily back to their places in line. She had worked through a truly impressive number of gentlemen to no success—at which one very young man actually burst into tears and had to be consoled by commiserating peers—and by the time she reached the last half-dozen, Arthur's nerves were so taut that Merlin could virtually hear them straining.

The others crowded around in a vaguely circle-like clump to watch now that the competition was so reduced, the stakes so high.

Humbert, who had already pledged his heart to Genevieve, brushed lips with the Lady Vivian with some trepidation, as if he feared True Love would betray him like some kind of assassin in the dark. Merlin had to admit he sympathized, and he was glad for a relieved Humbert when the knight drew back, and Vivian was unchanged.

Lord Slander tried to bow out at the last possible moment, but the other men caught him as one and, protesting his reluctance, pushed him back towards Vivian with open hands. Sighing feelingly, he angled his head, darted in, and then reeled back, faking an extremely dramatic faint, again to be caught by the crowd, who were laughing uncontrollably this time.

Lord Very Nice Hair wrinkled his nose and kissed Vivian as if she was a poisonous snake, and Lord Big But Soft-Hearted kissed her as if she was made of white rose petals that would scatter at his touch. Neither of these affected her, and she turned to the last three men in the room—Fabian, Harper, and a very ill-looking Ian.

"Goodbye, cruel world," Arthur said.

Fabian beamed rather convincingly as Vivian approached him, blinking, appearing not to anticipate. He raised his eyebrows, and she tilted her head, and then they drew together like two jewel-winged insects floating on the wind.

Merlin had witnessed literally dozens of kisses this morning, but this had to be the most picturesque. Vivian's hair draped pale blonde, and Fabian's was—as continually emphasized—shining gold, and his hands rose gently to her neck and her shoulder, cradling their smooth and lovely curves. After a crystalline moment, all present holding their breath, the nobleman and the princess parted, gazing into one another's eyes, a gentle shift as though a ribbon ran between them.

Then Vivian blinked, smiled politely, and turned to Captain Harper, unmoved and expectant.

"I don't believe it," Arthur whispered. "I _am_ going to jump out that window, Merlin. It's better than eloping."

Merlin would not be letting anyone jump out of a window, least of all an Arthur Pendragon who had stroked one finger down his cheek the night before.

Captain Harper paused, looked around at the group waiting silently, and then set his palm against Vivian's jaw and sweetly covered her mouth with his.

Merlin glanced at Ian to the side, and Harper's servant's eyes were shrewd, his face composed, his arms tightly folded across his chest. Merlin got the sense, somehow, that it wasn't the gesture Ian disliked so much as the possibility that Harper's life would be altered drastically if the princess of Valden wanted him for hers.

That was love—forsaking jealousy for unconditional care. That was something Merlin understood.

Then Harper released Vivian, who looked to Ian without batting an extremely thick eyelash.

Ian was the last man in the room. Arthur's hand leapt to Merlin's arm and seized it, as if he needed the reminder of how much hinged on the moment that had arrived.

Ian, who was smart and bright-eyed and sardonic and obliging and really rather True Lovable, now that Merlin considered, slipped both arms around the princess and dipped her low as he kissed her warmly. That done, he deftly guided her back to her feet, already giving Harper a challenging look.

Harper licked his lips.

Arthur's grip on Merlin had become extremely uncomfortable, and he seemed to be attempting to wring Merlin's forearm right off.

"I'm dead," the prince said faintly. "I'm a corpse."

Merlin thought that had to be the fastest and most subtle bit of decaying he'd ever seen. Vivian turned, smiling brightly, and set her gaze on Arthur, clasping her hands beneath her chin.

"Darling!" she gasped. "Where shall we go? Did you bring a noble steed?"

Arthur made a break for the window, and Merlin flung himself at the prince's arm, catching his elbow and hauling him back. He was gauging which direction was best to run, since Vivian's slippers didn't look particularly practical—and he and Arthur had a hell of a lot of practice scrambling for their lives, which he figured would work out in their favor here. The crowd was between them and the door, but they could probably shove through faster than Vivian could, and he supposed that if they got very desperate indeed, they _could_ jump out the window, and he could cushion their fall with magic and hope for the best…

Vivian skipped towards them, her ringlets bouncing jauntily, and as Arthur writhed in Merlin's grip, Merlin started thinking maybe the window was their best bet after all. Arthur had a point about preferring death to Vivian's clutches.

Just before he let go, ready to leap after Arthur and find out what happened next, Collette stepped in front of the relentlessly approaching princess, throwing out her arms.

"Milady," she said, her voice high but clear, though there was a tremor in her hands, "I'm very, very sorry if I'm wrong."

From his angle, all Merlin saw of this kiss was Collette's tense shoulders and Vivian's fluttering hands, which waved for a moment, then paused, then tangled themselves in her maidservant's hair.

One of the knights fainted in a clatter of armor on stone.

Vivian drew back, blinking, and took Collette's hands, smiling warmly for a moment, pink in her cheeks, before she looked around her, started and confused.

"What in the world is all this?" she demanded, sounding familiar—sounding, in fact, like the woman she'd been before. "What are you all gawking at? And what are _they_ doing here?" This was directed at Arthur and Merlin, who had apparently become something undesirable one might find on the bottom of one's not-terribly-practical shoe. "My father will eviscerate all of you if he hears—"

Arthur threw his arms around Merlin and hugged him so tightly that Merlin was in serious danger of suffocating.

"Arthur—" he managed to squeeze out. "—appreciate—gesture—can't—breathe—"

"Tough shit," Arthur told him contentedly, ruffling his hair.

It was very possible that Merlin would have died in these tremendously anticlimactic straits had not every tapestry in the room then burst into flame.

The yells were deafening on top of the roaring and popping of the flames, and Arthur had released Merlin in his surprise, the better to start trying to delegate immediately, raising his voice above the din. Merlin seized his shoulder and pointed, however, to the figure on the balcony—the figure half-bent to watch the chaos, dirty fingers curled around the railing, dirty teeth bared in a grin. Merlin wouldn't have needed to see the stained motley to identify the only other being in the castle who could start fires out of nothing and nowhere, and he felt Arthur's muscles tense in recognition underneath his hand.

Trickler noticed them watching, snarled soundlessly amidst the chaos, and darted out of sight. Arthur grabbed Merlin's shoulders, a heavy hand on each, and looked him in the eyes.

"It has to be you," Arthur said.

"_What_?" Merlin squeaked, still a little breathless from the hug, though the black smoke seething from the tapestries certainly wasn't any help.

"I have to help here," Arthur told him, "and besides, only another magic worker's going to have any hope."

There was a long would-have-been-a-silence as Merlin stared at the prince, hearing his blood rush giddily in his ears.

"Another _what_?" his voice said shakily.

Arthur's index finger stabbed into his chest. "Sorcerer. You. When you told Olaf you and Gaius studied magic, I started to think, and then one thing after another made sense. I'm not stupid—and, apparently, neither are you. We can have the policy debate later; track him down and _kill him_."

Merlin swallowed, staring still, and Arthur paused.

"Or… whatever it is that sorcerers do. Zap him with your magic wand, I don't care; just get _rid_ of him."

"You are totally bloody insane," Merlin said faintly.

Arthur shook him, gently enough, though Merlin's head bobbled a bit.

"This is it, isn't it?" Arthur asked. "Destiny. This is you and me, doing what we're meant to. So go on and do it. I'll be here."

With the things they'd been through, with the things they'd done, _I'll be here_ was enough.

Merlin grinned a little despite himself, shrugged his way out of Arthur's grip, and ran.

He didn't exactly know where he was headed—up, out, towards the most probable target. Trickler could have killed everyone in the hall if he'd wanted to; it had to be something more complicated, more refined that he was after. He'd passed up the chance for maximum destruction.

Merlin's facility for navigating the castle still left something—or a great many somethings, namely ease, speed, and success—to be desired, but his feet carried him up to the level he and Arthur had found before, at the end of Collette's secret passage. Sure enough, the door to enter had been left ajar. Merlin clenched his fists, drew a deep breath, and squeezed through the gap.

Even with a strip of light sliding in, the corridor was nearly pitch-black. Merlin waited near the entrance, curling and uncurling his fingers, loosening his hands and his tongue as he waited for his eyes to adjust. As his sight improved, he could pick out the details of the spot—like the wealth of cobwebs in the corner, thick and matted, layers built indiscriminately one over another. He was also starting to think these passages must have been for the royalty, once, not for their servants and their secret guests; the walls were lined with intricate, delicate sculpture, friezes worn low by time and trailing hands. They were encouraging scenes, at least, all maidens and brave knights and salvation from the dark, a book of children's stories built into the walls. Merlin caught sight of a virtuous sorcerer in a very silly-looking pointed hat—not that he could talk about sorcerers in hats—and smiled. It was the young king, however, crowned and blazing like a torch in the midst of his formless enemies, that Merlin reached out and touched.

Shoulders squared, he summoned a small blue witchlight, his whisper echoing back against the walls, and started forward, beams of violet darting in the shadows that hemmed him in close.

He couldn't help sparing thought for the pictures on the walls as he strode by—they were wonderful, and he wanted to quash the pressure of urgency in his chest and admire them all properly, one by one. Here the soldiers were facing off against some giant creature, and in the next portion, they'd bested it. The wizard was conjuring a storm, and then the king was raising his sword in triumph.

Merlin remembered himself—and remembered that Arthur was relying on him to deal with Trickler and to save who knew how much and how many. He steadied the witchlight and focused, moving forward, keeping his gaze on the passage ahead. He couldn't afford to get distracted and let Arthur down, no matter what appeared on the shadowy walls out of the corner of his eye, not even if the images looked like they were subtly shifting…

They were subtly shifting. They were moving. They were alive.

Sword blades and reaching hands began to extend towards him from the walls, lengthening and sharpening, stone faces contorting into snarls and sneers. Merlin saw flashes of pointed teeth, of growing fangs, of blank eyes narrowing to pale, sightless slits that followed him as he ran—

For of course he ran.

Stone swords and fingers snagged at his sleeves, pricking at his skin right through the fabric, like dozens of little spears. One tore the cloth, drawing a hot, stinging line down his forearm, and he jerked his hand away, darting between the points. He could have sworn the corridor hadn't been this long the first time; it seemed to go on forever now—he stumbled more than once, more than half a dozen times, the witchlight guttering, as he wove his shoulders through the closing gap between the spikes on either side. The blades were scraping at him, and a small but searing plume of flame burst from the mouth of a miniature dragon at his right. He dodged away, encountering the edge of a thin sword opposite, and then hopelessly corrected again. He had to move faster; he had to get out; he absolutely refused to die here at the hands of a hundred figures from a _frieze_.

Just as he was beginning to despair—and as the creatures on the walls were approaching an appreciable and extremely intimidating size—his staggering brought him far enough that he could just make out the strip of light left by the other door. All he needed was one last sprint—just a little further—he batted a few swords and what looked like a halberd out of the way, ducking the tail of a rather considerable snake, and forced his knees to rise, shoved one foot in front of the other, coaxed another breath into his burning lungs—

He rammed his shoulder into the door, and it gave, sending him tumbling out into the hall beyond. The proper light was blinding, and, blinking dazedly, he discovered himself on his hands and knees, staring at the tile.

"Hello, Merlin," Trickler said.

Slowly, Merlin raised his head. Belatedly he thought that perhaps he should have taken one of the stone swords from its owner; at least he would have had a weapon, something to put between him and the murdering madman who stood before him now.

That had been an oversight.

"Hello," he replied, following the creased boots up to the torn motley, thence up to the smirk and the gleaming eyes. "Pleasant weather we've had, isn't it?"

Generously, Trickler let him get halfway to his feet before sweeping one hand and slamming him into the wall. The stone blocks smacked the breath right out of his chest, and Merlin crumpled to the floor, which wasn't much more sympathetic. Clutching at his ribs—which felt like they were disintegrating—Merlin gathered himself up again, carefully raising his gaze to meet Trickler's eyes. If painful experience had taught him one thing, it was that sorcerers were arrogant, complacent in the knowledge that they had power over everyone around them, and playing the part of a terrified victim might encourage Trickler to a dangerous degree of confidence.

"What do you want?" he asked, doing his best to sound helpless and plaintive. "You've already jeopardized so many people. What are you looking for? We can find a way to give it to you without hurting anyone."

Trickler heaved a tremendous sigh, sending a flicker of white flame dancing over the back of his knuckles and then catching it between his finger and his thumb. "You're missing the point," he said. "Look around you, Merlin. Look at the life you lead. I could spend my whole life killing and never match what Uther's done. We're persecuted, Merlin. We're going to disappear."

"We're not," Merlin insisted, stepping tentatively nearer, carefully watching the swelling white flame in Trickler's palm. "Things will change. We just have to stay quiet until—"

"Deny ourselves, you mean," Trickler said. "We just have to suppress our instincts, our brilliance, our unique ability to fix things as well as ruin them. We just have to cease to be ourselves. Another injustice Uther heaps upon our shoulders, so few of us with heads above them now—when do we stop accepting this, Merlin? Do you intend to live and die a liar?"

"If it's what's best for Camelot," Merlin managed, though the words sounded flimsy even to his own ears. "What do you _want_? If it's a place to be free, we can find one; there are kingdoms more tolerant than Camelot. If Alined's supported you all this time—"

"Supported me?" Trickler snarled, and white fire flared and licked down his wrist. "Enslaved me, Merlin, like your _prince_ has done to you." He darted forward, so quickly that there wasn't time to flinch aside before the other sorcerer's unencumbered hand was clenching in his neckerchief, pulling him close. "We could subjugate them all, Merlin. We could make them see us as we are."

"Is that what you want?" Merlin asked him, shying away from Trickler's other hand, which was engulfed in those strange white flames. "Recognition? I'm sure we could find a place—"

"No," Trickler said. "It's you I need. There's something about you, Merlin."

Merlin wasn't sure whether to laugh or to recoil, though having a fiery hand rise and hover by his cheek, the heat of the flames close and tremendous, made him favor the latter.

"I felt it," Trickler told him. "When we fought the first time. You're different; your magic is. It's fuller and more powerful, even if it isn't practiced, and _that_ is what I need."

Merlin swallowed. "Right. So wh… what are you planning to do now?"

Trickler smiled, pleasantly.

Then he blasted Merlin with all the force of the gathering white flame.

Another unforgiving wall broke Merlin's trajectory, and a sputtered spell put out the worst of the flames, which fortunately seemed to have been designed more to burrow beneath his skin and burn there than to incinerate his clothing and his hair. Merlin could only imagine how difficult besting a strong sorcerer would be _naked_.

Actually, he'd had a nightmare like that once.

His skid had left an impressive scorch mark on the floor all the same, and Trickler was striding through it towards him as Merlin scrambled to his feet. The first order of business was a strong shield, and the second was hastily considering the third order of business, which was surviving this.

Trickler battered at the gleaming bubble of a shield with a series of pounding spells, waves of pressure, and what Merlin presumed were invisible rocks. Ripples bounced across the opalescent surface, and Merlin was thinking fast—as fast as he could manage, trying to judge the timing, which would have to be very clean indeed. He would have to abandon the shield just as Trickler was regrouping for another attack, and he would have to take the offensive in the interim.

It all sounded very simple laid out like that, but the plan didn't account for the way Trickler's vicious, grinning enthusiasm made Merlin's stomach flip.

There was a long barrage of searing flames, but this kind of shield had stood up to the Great Dragon once before—Merlin gritted his teeth and held it, watching the first signs of strain appear on Trickler's face. Just a little longer, then—Merlin's arms were trembling, and his elbows felt like jelly—just another moment; just another two—

Trickler paused for breath, and Merlin let his shield collapse in a wink of silver, crafting fire with his tongue even as it disappeared. He enveloped his hands, clenching his fists to concentrate the heat, cultivating it, feeding it with his anger and his indignation and his hatred of his own stupid fear.

Trickler was mounting a counterattack, but one of the basic truths of magic was that simpler spells rolled off the tongue faster, and whoever started speaking first had the advantage.

Merlin released the flames and blasted Trickler down the hall.

His opponent, however, having heard him uttering the spell, knew already how best to defend, and the force of the blow had more of an effect than the fire itself. Trickler's clothes had seen worse, and he extinguished all the flames well before they did any considerable damage, though their impact had nonetheless thrown him to the floor.

Merlin needed a new tactic, and he needed it as soon as humanly possible.

As Trickler began to gather himself to his feet, Merlin turned and ran. If he could get around a corner, Trickler would follow and give him the element of momentary surprise. Accordingly, he swung around the first corner he found, boots scraping on the tile, and waited by an open window that looked out over the roof, curved tiles sloping down towards the courtyard three floors below. He leaned against the wall, panting, and watched the juncture with the corridor from which he'd come, whispering to build a different spell this time—a rope-like spell. If he could bind Trickler, tie him up, contain him, maybe this wouldn't have to end with death. One death was too many, and Merlin had seen dozens. Caused dozens. He'd prioritized Arthur's life and his own, and he'd killed in the name of that preference.

That was the price of survival, he supposed.

"Merlin—"

He whirled the other way. Ian was at the far end of the hall, armed only with a dagger.

"Harper sent me to—" he began.

"Be careful!" Merlin hissed urgently. "Actually, just stay away; he's—"

Ian's eyes flicked past Merlin's shoulder, and he ducked out of the way. Merlin had just enough time to turn and then flatten himself against the wall as a torrent of flame flooded through it towards the place Ian had been.

The spell was gone—it had slipped out of Merlin's hands like water, which left him with no defense at all.

He gulped, took one look at Trickler's face, and climbed out the window.

The roof tiles were slippery beneath his feet, the slant of them rather perilous. It was really a pity that these things were so difficult to judge from a safe distance—by the time Merlin could distinguish danger, he was always already in the thick of it, too deep to get out again.

Nothing to be done for that, though, so Merlin took a deep breath, held both arms out hoping to steady himself, and started towards the adjacent wall. If he could hop back into another window, he could always circle around, and maybe…

Maybe that _thud_ behind him was Trickler joining him on the roof.

A faint mutter from by the window brought another stream of fire coursing through the air, and Merlin darted to the side, then stumbled. He could smell the air singed by the hungry flames as they narrowly missed his cheek, and the rough tiles scraped his fingers as he caught himself on them and tried to scramble back to his feet.

He was nearing a rise in the roof, and a momentary shield and a few deft dodges carried him up to the top—thought not without a lot of scrabbling, two bruised shins, and a few bloody knuckles as well. Balancing on the ridge, at the highest point between two slopes, he finally had the chance to look down at Trickler and reverse their roles.

Wasting no time on a proper spell, Merlin drew on the instinctive magic that hummed underneath his skin, like gold-gleaming armor as unobtrusive and as critical to him as his blood. Roof tiles broke under Trickler's feet, sliding down and tumbling to the courtyard far below, fragments skittering. Trickler fumbled to grip at the slant of roof above him, fighting for traction as curved tiles slipped from beneath him in a continuous stream. Merlin sent more of them down, snapped them from their bearings, dissolved the mortar—more, faster, flinging one after another, flooding them down the roof. With an almost animalistic howl, Trickler toppled, losing his balance at last, and slid with the latest wave of cracked ceramic, clawing for a handhold as he careened ever closer to the edge.

Merlin caught his breath, his own hand extended and spread, as his adversary skidded towards the bottom of the roof, because Trickler was still a _human being_.

Albeit one with reflexes to make a wildcat jealous, Merlin noted, dropping his hand as Trickler caught the gutter and clung to it, dangling over the mass of smashed tiles but safe for now.

And it was different—killing a man when he was giving chase, when you were in danger. It was different from slaughtering someone hanging helpless and glancing at the ground below.

Maybe his hesitation would be the end of him someday, but at least there was a little less leaden weight on his conscience.

He couldn't quite hear Trickler's words from this distance, but he made out a flash of gold, and then the other sorcerer was releasing his grip and floating, with a strange and incongruous delicacy, towards the ground.

That was stylish. Merlin needed to learn that one.

In the meantime, he ran along the narrow tiles of the ridge, teetering dangerously as his second-most-prominent natural talent—sheer clumsiness—threw him one way and then the other. By some small miracle, he reached the edge of the roof without incident, and from his perch he could peer down at the courtyard and watch Trickler touch down on the stones.

Trickler looked back up at him, mouth moving, and then there was a firm jerk on Merlin's body that had nothing to do with clumsiness.

He fell.

Panic leapt within him, blocking his throat, and he fought it down, forcing himself to think—to think _Cushion, cushion, cushion, slow, soft, feathers, gentle, light_—

The magic took care of the rest.

The wind that had been rushing past his ears and tearing at his clothes diminished and then stilled completely, and Merlin opened his eyes, which made him realize he'd closed them. The surge of magic tingling in his fingers faded, and the spell cut off, letting him fall two more inches to land sprawled on his back on the cobblestones.

Trickler was staring at him in awe and envy, but he regained awareness in mere moments, forgoing the emotions in favor of ending Merlin's impressive little life.

Merlin crawled backward, banging his elbows on the stones, as Trickler approached—there wasn't time to get to his feet, and there wasn't any mercy in those eyes. He just had to—he ought to—needed—if he could—

A small rock whizzed through the air and smacked Trickler squarely in the side of the head.

Merlin stared.

He and Trickler both turned to look, and together they discovered a hard-eyed Ian, who was hefting another rock. He still carried the dagger in his other hand, angled to show that he knew how to use it, although the threatening effect was something undermined by the fact that he had Collette and Vivian behind him. A flick of Merlin's glance, however, confirmed his desperate hope that Arthur and Captain Harper were soon to follow—there was a flash of pale red and gold in one of the windows, and Merlin's heart and his magic both agreed it was the prince.

Ian hurled the other rock, and this one hit Trickler in the shoulder.

"What the hell is this?" Trickler demanded, twitching as the stone rebounded and clattered to the cobbles.

"Poetic justice," Ian said.

Trickler blinked for a moment, and then his eyes narrowed. He swiveled fully away from Merlin, who had been fruitlessly sending Ian and the ladies _Run away now and scream if you want to_ looks, and then advanced towards his new adversaries, fire crackling around his open hands again.

Merlin summoned a small waterfall from nowhere, dousing Trickler's hands, and the flames dissipated in a hiss of steam—only for Trickler to call up seething, concentrated lightning instead, without ever slowing his advance. Ian was holding up incredibly bravely, standing still with the knife out, his face composed. Over the rising panic clawing in his throat, Merlin tried to think what could subdue lightning, how he should counter, how he could save the three lunatics standing there, none of them wavering, waiting for almost-certain death—and why were they so confident? Merlin glanced up quickly, but there weren't any archers leaning out of the upper windows, and Arthur and the Captain still hadn't arrived—

Merlin called on his magic again, this time to pick up broken roof tiles and start pitching them at Trickler—anything to get him away from a trio of defenseless human beings, one of whom _happened_ to be the most cherished princess in at least a dozen kingdoms.

The first tile smashed against Trickler's back, but he batted the others aside with a shield like the ones Merlin had used. On the upside, any time Trickler was defending, he wasn't attacking, and Merlin had just enough time to scramble to his feet.

"Could you do it?" Trickler asked Ian, whose knuckles were relaxed around the handle of the knife. "I suppose 'could you' isn't nearly so interesting as… _will_ you?"

Merlin took one step towards him, and Trickler spared him no more or less than a final spell—a cold, sibilant one that tightened inescapably around Merlin's chest, a broad band like a closing fist. Even as he squirmed, trying and failing to catch a deep breath, it lifted him off of the ground, squeezed just a little tighter, and then dropped him the two meters to the cobblestones.

Merlin was going to feel that in the morning.

Gritting his teeth, he fought through the bursting, swelling, dizzying pain, and dragged himself to his knees. He raised his right hand, fingers spread, and forced his shaken head to wrap itself around the question of what came next.

Next, Trickler smirked viciously at Ian, who hadn't moved.

Then Ian's eyes glowed gold, and his lips shifted to form a barely voiced spell.

Trickler's entire body tensed with disbelief, and Merlin sympathized. Only a quickly and desperately improvised shield protected Trickler from a rising whirlwind that felt scorching even from Merlin's distance.

Trickler howled his displeasure—and, by the sound of things, his pain—and fell to his knees, bowing his head as his shield shuddered, thinner with every passing moment.

"Please," Trickler gasped, his shoulders shaking visibly.

Ian frowned, lowering his hand. "Are you ready to nego—"

Snarling, Trickler flung a handful of glittering powder at Ian's fading eyes, making the defenseless servant cry out and start scrubbing with his free hand. Trickler rose effortlessly to his feet and stepped forward, teeth bared, growling out another spell that sounded worse even than any of its predecessors.

Then Vivian wrested the knife out of Ian's grip, stepped forward, and plunged it up through Trickler's ribs.

"That," she hissed, "is for enchanting me and jeopardizing the peace treaty."

She twisted the knife, and Trickler gave a soft, wet gasp.

"_That_," Vivian said, "is for making me look ridiculous in front of every man in the court."

Blood dribbled on the cobblestones, and Trickler's hands rose tremulously and then dropped. Vivian let go of the knife as his body crumpled before her feet, a tangle of muddied motley capped with an expression as shocked as the one Merlin wore.

And then Arthur was there, holding an arm under his elbow to hold him upright as his knees wobbled.

"When I'm king," Arthur murmured, "remind me never to cross her."

There was too much in the offhanded phrase—too much in the assumption that Merlin would still be there, still be at Arthur's side, still be giving his golden prince cheerfully unsolicited advice—for Merlin to be able to laugh, but he did manage a nod and a bit of a shaky smile.

Arthur considered him. "Would you incinerate me with magic if I mussed up your hair right now?" he asked, and his voice was light but gentle.

"Yes," Merlin said.

Arthur frowned. "I'm not sure I like this arrangement anymore."

Harper had put an arm around Ian's shoulders, and Collette was clasping one of Vivian's hands in both of hers, but Merlin found himself distracted by the widening pool of blood on the cobblestones. He _knew_ who would be cleaning that up if they'd been in Camelot, and he recoiled at the thought of putting another innocent soul in that unpleasant spot.

"What are you doing?" Arthur demanded as Merlin opened his hand, his fingers almost steady even now. "You look like you're going to pass out if you do any more, Merlin."

"I would never," Merlin said, and then he did.

He swam in and out of consciousness enough times to remember Arthur carrying him back into the castle in both arms, his legs dangling, his head nestled in against the prince's chest. Even half-awake, Merlin knew, with a deep and solidified conviction that warmed him from the inside outward, that he could not possibly be more safe.

—

  
"I think that's everything," Collette said, stepping back. She had just secured the last of the packs behind Merlin's horse's saddle, and she looked reluctant to declare that it was done.

Merlin understood that. He was reluctant to leave.

For all its perils—and for all of the pretty-haired lunatics that frequented its court—Valden had been a blessed escape in countless ways. Their time here had resembled Camelot life enough to be profoundly comforting, but the crucial differences in their responsibilities and their essential anonymity had been… liberating. Merlin was going to miss it, and he was certainly going to miss the two servants and the roguish captain who had come to see them off.

He might even miss the princess who had deigned to join them.

"You know it was all the enchantment," she was telling Arthur for the fourteenth time that morning (fifteenth, if you counted the one where he'd cut her off at "You know" with "Yes, I do"). "I'd never elope with you. Ever. In a million years. So don't ask."

"Milady," Arthur said, "there is nothing you have to worry about less."

The prince stepped over to his mount, and Collette darted in to hug him first.

"Thank you," she said, flushing a little. "And not just for the obvious."

"You're always welcome to that position in Camelot," Arthur replied. "Or just to visit as long as you like."

"How about me?" Harper asked, moving into Collette's place and clapping Arthur's shoulder warmly.

"You should stay far away from our entire population," Arthur told him, grinning. "I need them working, not mooning over you."

Arthur's and Ian's eyes met, and the prince nodded slowly, and the servant smiled.

It was Vivian's turn, and she visibly took a deep breath before approaching Arthur. Then she curtsied low and gracefully, her head tipped and her back straight.

Arthur bowed deeply in return, and then he kissed her hand before she could sidle off.

"If you or Valden ever needs our help again," he said, "you have it. All you have to do is ask."

Vivian blushed prettily. "Thank you," she said sincerely. She paused. "But you know it—"

Arthur laid a palm over his eyes and forehead. "_We all know_."

Merlin laughed a little, which attracted everyone's attention. He hadn't expected that.

He hadn't expected to be tackled to the stable floor by three people trying to hug him at once, either.

—

  
"Ow," Merlin said as his horse jolted him for the umpteenth time.

"Gaius will make sure Trickler didn't hurt you too badly," Arthur assured him idly.

"It wasn't the fight," Merlin said. "It was the goodbyes."

Arthur tossed his head a little, and the sunlight that filtered through the trees glinted wildly on his hair. "You should stop being so popular."

"Why?" Merlin asked, grinning despite himself, because it was impossible to stay discontented with the prince looking like that. "So you can keep me all to yourself?"

"Obviously," Arthur said.

Merlin was slightly disappointed to discover that he was simply too pleased to think of a comeback.

He supposed he could live with that.

—

  
When they burst into Gaius's workroom, he looked up so suddenly that he dropped the vial he'd been fiddling with, and Merlin instinctually froze it in the air before it could hit the ground.

There was an excruciatingly long pause, the duration of which Gaius spent staring at Arthur in trepidation and disbelief, tensed to recoil—or maybe even to run.

Arthur coughed loudly.

"There's no need to show off," he said, "_Mer_lin."

Gaius attempted to hide his immense relief by bending down to retrieve the vial, which Merlin definitely did not imbue with momentary sparkles and a chime-like sound to earn Arthur's reprimand.

Gaius set the vial down, and then he came over, paused, and patted Merlin's arms from shoulder to wrist.

"Nothing broken?" he asked.

"Except his brain," Arthur volunteered. "But you already know about that."

With a faint smile, Gaius wrapped both arms around Merlin and held him tightly.

"Hug bruises," Merlin gasped out through the burgeoning pain.

Gaius drew back, his hands on Merlin's shoulders, and slowly and deliberately raised the Eyebrow.

Merlin would have felt chagrined if he hadn't been too busy with delight.

—

  
Evidently, a lot of spells had been broken just before they had left Valden. For instance, the spell making Merlin more than another glorified castle slave had disappeared with the day's sun, dropping off behind the distant hills and vanishing with the faintest glimmer of red. Likewise, Merlin and his red neckerchief seemed to have vanished from Arthur's perception, his status as the hero of the hour dissolving into the dim contours of the usual arrangement.

He'd barely put his head into Arthur's room before the prince said, "Run me a bath, Merlin" without even looking up from what must have been an extremely enthralling section of the tabletop.

Merlin considered making the water so hot it slowly boiled the prince alive. After all that—after the things they'd said, and talked about, and admitted, and shared—now that Arthur knew his greatest and most dangerous secret, which allowed him to hold Merlin's fate in his hands, not that he seemed to care.

Merlin made his huge bucket extremely buoyant, to the effect that he was actually holding it down as he walked, rather than holding it up to carry it. It probably would have floated to the ceiling, steaming water and all, if he'd let go of it. He entertained thoughts of dumping it on the prince's head and counting that as a shower.

Courtesy of Merlin's willpower, however, Arthur's tub filled in due time, with minimal sloshing, no less. When he'd emptied the last load, Merlin slammed the bucket down on the floor and then sat back to ease off of his aching knees, at which point the bucket duly rose into the air and hovered near the eaves.

Arthur looked up at last.

"How did you ever survive this long without anyone finding out?" he asked.

"I guess that speaks to your obliviousness, doesn't it?" Merlin muttered.

"You're pouting," Arthur noted interestedly. "Why are you pouting?"

Merlin scowled at him.

Scowled, not pouted. That was an extraordinarily critical distinction, and of course one that the blockheaded prat who called himself a prince couldn't be expected to understand.

"What are you waiting for?" Arthur asked, apparently giving up on his previous question. He gestured—munificently, he probably thought—to the tub. "Get in."

Merlin stared at him.

"It's been a long day," Arthur went on, "and I swear road dust is actually attracted to you." He paused, and if Merlin wasn't hallucinating, there was a spot of pink in either of the prince's cheeks. "I suppose I can't blame it at this point."

Merlin blinked.

Apparently this was the signal that it was Arthur's turn to frown.

"Have you magicked yourself mute?" he asked, and a flicker of genuine worry crossed his face. "I wouldn't put it past you. That'd be a trick; you wouldn't be able to speak the spell to undo it, would you?"

"You can't treat me differently," Merlin said, surprised at the force and forwardness of his own voice. "You can't—kiss me, and talk about—" His throat stuck, but he shoved the words through the knot, even though his voice quavered. "—true love and then—pretend it never happened. Go back to the way things were. Nothing is the way it was when we left here. Valden changed everything. You have to accept that."

Arthur stood up and started toward him, and Merlin tensed, not sure what to expect. He held his ground, though, looking up at Arthur steadily as the prince came closer… and closer… and crouched down to look him in the eyes.

"I can't exactly be seen doting on you, can I?" he asked.

"No one would stop you," Merlin shot back. "Nobody would dare."

"It would get complicated," Arthur said. "It's not like I haven't thought about this."

The idea soothed Merlin's pride more than he expected and warmed his heart more than he wanted to admit.

"It's already complicated," he insisted nonetheless. "You can't just—not even acknowledge me. That's not fair."

"The world isn't," Arthur said, and then he leaned in and kissed Merlin warmly and just a little bit softly.

"Well," Merlin managed faintly when they drew apart, Arthur's hand splayed on his reddening cheek, "you don't have to make it worse."

"Are you planning to get that bucket off the ceiling?" Arthur asked, smoothing his fingertips through the hair at Merlin's temple.

"I was going to before you distracted me," Merlin answered.

"I'm not distracting you now," Arthur said.

Merlin looked pointedly into the prince's deep blue eyes, letting his expression go hazy and infatuated, which was significantly easier than he'd hoped.

"Bucket," Arthur said. "Ceiling. Now."

Merlin scowled at him a little more for good measure before gradually returning the bucket's weight, which brought it gently drifting to the floor beside them. This time, Arthur was staring at Merlin's eyes, with something like wonder.

"That is remarkable," he said.

"It's normal to me," Merlin replied, shifting under the scrutiny.

"Just goes to show that I was right," Arthur mused. "There has always been something about you, Merlin." Merlin wrinkled his nose, but before he could respond, Arthur was gesturing to the tub. "Go on. Get in. You must have learned how to do that in Valden."

"Forgot," Merlin said.

"Then I imagine you've also forgotten how to sleep in my bed." Arthur's tone was light, though he seemed to be watching Merlin closely.

"I remember that," Merlin told him. Slowly and mischievously, he started to grin. "Though I'm not sure I want to."

Arthur's eyes went wide and so unhappy that Merlin felt a sharp pang of guilt even though he knew what was going to happen next.

"Why, exactly," Arthur began, his voice clipped, his eyes narrowed, "is that?"

Merlin beamed at him. "Because you snore."

Arthur looked appalled for a long, silent moment.

The next few moments were equally wordless but not nearly so quiet. Merlin shifted uncomfortably, wondering for the millionth time if he'd gone too far—it was impossible to tell with Arthur, who was subject to incredibly mercurial moods despite his golden heart. On top of that, the prince's "I'm going to run you through" expression was almost indistinguishable from "I'm going to hurt myself laughing in a minute," and on top of _that_, Valden had hurled all of Merlin's conclusions about his life into the air, leaving him to scramble to collect them when they fell. If the spell was genuine—if a few words and a potion and whatever other tokens Trickler had employed could somehow simplify what was, as both Merlin and Arthur apparently knew, an infinitely complex emotion and the repercussions it entailed—

Then what? Then Merlin could test Arthur's patience a little more without fear of serious harm? It probably wasn't possible to push that boundary any further as it was.

He swallowed, trying to detect hints of _run you through_ or _laugh uproariously_ so that he could react accordingly. He stiffened, planting his feet on the floor in case he had to run, and curled his fingers just a little, because magic was fair game now.

All of his preparation proved useless when Arthur leaned forward without warning and dove on him, easily pinning him to the floor, somehow protecting his head from the stone even in the middle of assaulting him.

Merlin supposed that if that wasn't true love, he didn't know what was.

Arthur brought his face very close to Merlin's their noses just a fraction apart, and his eyes blazed as he smiled thinly.

"I do not snore."

"You not liking it doesn't make it untrue," Merlin informed him—bravely, he felt, given the range of Arthur's teeth, knees, and… other weapons as well.

"I thought no one was going to stop me," Arthur murmured back, his breath very warm against Merlin's lips, "because I'm the pratty, entitled prince." He ducked, his mouth ghosting over Merlin' jaw, and held both of Merlin's wrists against the floor with one strong hand. "Isn't that right?"

"Something like that," Merlin gasped, "may have crossed my mind."

Arthur was demonstrating his best _I knew what you were going to say because I own you_ smirk, which, unfortunately, was extremely becoming, like most of his unpleasant expressions.

Merlin discovered, however, that he could get revenge and advance his goals at the same time, to which end he arched his back, pushing his hips into Arthur's, pressing their bodies together from collarbones to thighs.

"That's it," Arthur said, his voice higher and fainter than Merlin had ever heard it before. "To hell with the bath, to hell with the dirt, and _definitely_ to hell with the snoring. You're coming to bed _right_—" He hauled them both up so fast that Merlin's head spun. "—_now_."

That done, Arthur threw both arms around Merlin's waist, picked him up, and tossed him onto the mattress, once again somehow making sure he didn't get hurt. Even as Merlin scrambled to leverage himself up enough to see what Arthur intended next, the prince climbed up beside him and started pulling at his neckerchief.

Merlin would have been the last to endorse the image of magic-workers as witchy old crones, but he may or may not have cackled.

Just a bit.


End file.
